IRLF 


ITTIER 


m 

& 


1 


; 


' 


" 


ITOBER    14. 

L.ast  night  I  saw  the  sunset  melt  through 
my  prison  bars, 

Last  night  across  my  damp,  earth  floor  fell 
the  pale  gleam  of  stars; 

In  the  coldness  and  the  darkness  all 
through  the  long  night-time 

My  grated  casement  whitened  with  au 
tumn's,  early  rime. 


At  length  the  heavy  bolts  fell  back,  my  door 

was  open  cast, 
And  slowly,  at  the  sheriff's  side,  up  the  long 

street  I  passed; 
I  heard  a  murmur  'round  me,  and  felt,  but 

dared  not  see, 
Hew,    from    every    door   and    window,    the 

people  gazed  on  me. 


Then  to  the  stout  sea  captains  the  sheriff, 
turning,  said: 

"Which  of  ye,  worthy  seamen,  will  take 
this  Quaker  maid? 

In  the  isle  of  fair  Barbadoes,  or  on  Vir 
ginia's  shore, 

You  may  hold  her  at  a  higher  price  than 
Indian  girl  or  Moor." 

Grim  and  silent  stood  the  captains;  and 
when  again  he  cried: 

"Speak  out,  my  worthy  seamen!"  no  voice, 
no  sign  replied; 

But  I  felt  a  hard  hand  press  my  own,  and 
kind  words  met  my  ear; 

"God  bless  thee  and  preserve  thee,  my  gen 
tle  girl  and  dear." 

A  weight   seemed  lifted   from   my   heart— a 

pitying  friend  was  nigh, 
I  felt  it  in  his  hard  rough  hand,   and  saw 

it  in  his  eye; 
And    when    again    the    sheriff    spoke,    that 

voice,  so  kind  to  me, 
Growled    back   its    stormy   answer    like   the 

roaring  of  the  sea— 

"Pile  my  ship  with  bars  of  silver— pack  with 

coins  of   Spanish   gold, 
From     keel-piece     up    to    deck-plank,     the 

roomage  of  her  hold, 
By  the  living  God  who  made  me!— I  would 

sooner  in  your  bay 
Sink   ship   and   crew   and   cargo,   than   bear 

this  child  away!" 
"U>11  answered,  worthy  captain,  shame  on 

their  cruel   laws!" 
Ran    through   the  crowd    in   murmurs   loud 

the  people's  first  applause. 


Oh,    at    that    hour   the   very    earth    seemed 

dhanged  beneath  my  eye, 
A  holier   wonder   'round  me   rose   the   blue 

walls    of   the    sky, 
A  lovelier  light  on  rock  and  hill  and  gTream 

and  woodland  lay, 
And    softer    lapsed    on    summer    sands    the 

waters  of  the  bay. 

[John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


GIFT  OF 
John  C.   Lynch, 


Associated  Fr€SS> 


AMKBBUBY,  Mass.,  Dec.  17.-This  old  town 
has  been  in  a  furore  all  day,  C^ebr*tui5; • 
eighty-eighth    birthday    of     the    Nation  s 
grand   old  poet,     John   Greenleaf    Whu- 
tier,  who,    at   his    house,    Known  _  as   Oak 
Knoll,  has  been  busily  engaged  with  delight 
in  receiving  a  host  of   friends,    letters  and 
communications      that      have        poure< 
upon      him.      Notes      of      greeting     and 
congratulations    were    received    from  the 
representatives        and         senators 


rounted.    The-childred    here    presented 
him  their  remembrances,  consisting  o 
ters  •  congratulation  and  flowers.eveiy 
bearing    a   tlower    of    some    kind. 

SS-siJS  fiftwfs  iSSS 


much  affected.  Curing  iu«  VK  ,£»£  »nd 
town  authorities,  headed  by  the  clerk  and 
followed  by  a  concourse  of  citizens, 

ing  in  State,  and  drove  to  the  poet  s  house^ 
The*  Governor    congratulated    Mr.  wnittie 
Ind  presented  him  with  a  handsome  souv 
enir       Other   cities    fittingly  remembered 
,  the  old  gentleman.    Hejwas  so  earned  away 
'  by  his  enthusiasm  and  emotion  that  he  was 
overcome  early  this  evening  and  had  to  be 
a'ssisted  to  retire. 


THE  DEAD  FEAST  OF  THE  KOL 
FOLK. 

CHOTA    NAQPOOE. 

We  have  opened  the  door. 

Once,  twice,  thrice ! 
We  have  swei>t  the  floor, 

We  have  boiled  the  rice. 
Come  hither,  coiue  hither! 
Come  from  the  far  lands,'' 
Come  from  the  star  lands, 

Come  as  before! 
We  lived  long  together, 
We  loved  one  another; 

Come  back  to  our  life. 
Come  father,  come  mother. 
Come  sister,  come  brother, 

Child,  husband,  wife, 
For  you  we  are  sighing. 
-Q  *«ke  your  old  places, 


A  Dark   Cloud  ami  its  Silver  Lining. 

In  the   minister's   morning  sermon,  he  told 

of  the  primal  fall, 
And    how,    henceforth,    the    wrath    of    God 

rested  on  each  and  all; 

And  how,  of  His  will  and  pleasure,  all  souls, 

save  a  chosen  few, 
"Were  doomed  ro  eternal  torture,  and  held  in 

the  way  thereto. 

Yet  never,  by  Faith's   unreason,   a  saintlier 

soul  was  tried, 
And  never  the  harsh    old    lesson   a  tenderer 

heart  belied. 

And  after  the  painful  service,  on  that  pleas 
ant,  bright,  spring  day, 

He  walked  with  his  little  daughter  thro'  the 
apple  bloom  of  May. 

Sweet  in  the   fresh,  green    meadow   sparrow 

and  blackbird  sung; 
Above  him  its  tinted  petals   the  blossoming 

orchard  hung. 

Around,  on  the  wonderful  glory,  the  minister 

looked  and  smiled; 
"  How  good  is  the  Lord,  who  gives  us  these 

gifts  from  His  hand,  my  child. 

"  Behold,  in   the   bloom   of  apples,  and   the 

violets  in  the  sward, 
A  hint  of  the  old   lost   beauty  of  the  garden 

of  the  Lord." 

Then  up  spake  the  little  maiden,  treading  on 

snow  and  pink, 
"  O,  father!  these   pretty   blossoms   are  very 

wicked,  I  think. 

"  Had  there  been  no  Garden  of  Eden,  there 

never  had  been  a  fall; 
And   if  never   a   tree    had    blossomed,   God 

would  ha  fe  loved  us  all." 

"Hush,  child!"   the   father   answered,   "By 

His  decree  man  fell; 
His  ways   are   in   clouds   and   darkness,  but 

He  doeth  all  things  well. 

"And  whether  by  His  ordaining  to  us  cometh 

good  or  ill, 
Joy  or  pain,  or  light  or  shadow,  we  must  fear 

and  love  Him  still." 

"O,  I  fear  him!"  said  the  daughter,  "and  1 

try  to  love  Him,  too; 
But  I  wish  He  were  kind   and    gentle— kind 

and  loving  as  you." 

The  minister  groaned  in  spirit,  as  the  tremu 
lous  lips  of  pain, 

And  wide,  wet  eyes,  uplifted,  questioned  his 
own  in  vain. 


of  the  Lord." 

Then  up  spake  the  little  maiden,  treading  on 

snow  and  pink, 
"  O,  father!  these   pretty   blossoms   are  very 

wicked,  I  think. 

"  Had  there  been  no  Garden  of  Eden,  there 

never  had  been  a  fall; 
And    if   never    a    tree    had    blossomed,    God 

would  ha  /e  loved  us  all." 

"Hush,  child!"   the   father   answered,   "By 

His  decree  man  fell; 
His  ways   are    in    clouds   and   darkness,  but 

He  doeth  all  things  well. 

"And  whether  by  His  ordaining  to  us  cometh 

good  or  ill, 
Joy  or  pain,  or  light  or  shadow,  we  must  fear 

and  love  Him  still." 

''O,  I  fear  him!"  said  the  daughter,  "and  1 

try  to  love  Him,  too; 
But  I  wish  He  were  kind   and   gentle— kind 

and  loving  as  you." 

The  minister  groaned  in  spirit,  as  the  tremu 
lous  lips  of  pain, 

And  wide,  wet  eyes,  uplifted,  questioned  his 
own  in  vain. 

Bowing  his  head,  he  pondered  the  words  of 

his  little  one. 
Had    he   erred    in    his    life-long    teachings  ? 

and  wrong  to  his  Master  done? 

To  what  grim  and  dreadful  idol  had  he  lent 

the  holiest  name  ? 
Did  his  own   heart,  loving  and    human,  the 

God  of  his  worship  shame  ? 

And  lo!  from  the  bloom  and  greenness,  from 

the  tender  skies  above, 
And   the  face   of  little   daughter,  he  read  a 

lesson  of  love. 

No    more    as    the    cloudy    terror   of    Sinai's 

mount  of  law 
But  as  Christ  in  the  Syrian  lilies  the  vision 

of  God   he  saw. 

And  as  when,  in   the    clefts  of  Horeb,  of  old 

WHS  His  presence  known, 
The  dread,  ineffable  glory  was  infinite  ^ood- 

iH-ss  alone. 

Thereafter    his    hearers    noted    in   his  praye 

a   tenderer  strain. 
Ainl    never  th>     message  of  hatred    burned  c 

his  lips  sixain. 

And    the   -eotlinii   tongue    \\-as    prayer!  u  I.   an 

the  Minded  e.\.-s  found  sU'ht, 
Ami    hearts,  as    flint    aforetime,  grew    soft    i 

warmth   and   li^ht. 

—Joint    <;.    H'/iit/icr. 


THE 


EARLY   POEMS 


OF 


JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 


COMPRISING 


MOGG  MEGONE,  THE   BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK, 

LEGENDARY  POEMS,  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM, 

MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS,  AND 

SONGS   OF  LABOR 


BOSTON 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 
New  York:  11  East  Seventeenth  Street 


1885 


Copyright,  1884, 
BY  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge  : 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


PROEM. 


T   LOVE  the  old  melodious  lays 
•*•   Which  softly  melt  the  ages  through, 
The  songs  of  Spenser's  golden  days, 
Arcadian  Sidney's  silvery  phrase, 
Sprinkling  our  noon  of  time  with  freshest  morning  dew. 

Yet,  vainly  in  my  quiet  hours 
To  breathe  their  marvellous  notes  I  try  ; 

I  feel  them,  as  the  leaves  and  flowers 

In  silence  feel  the  dewy  showers, 
And  drink  with  glad  still  lips  the  blessing  of  the  sky. 

The  rigor  of  a  frozen  clime, 
The  harshness  of  an  untaught  ear, 

The  jarring  words  of  one  whose  rhyme 

Beat  often  Labor's  hurried  time, 

Or  Duty's  rugged  march  through  storm  and  strife,  are 
here. 

Of  mystic  beauty,  dreamy  grace, 
No  rounded  art  the  lack  supplies  ; 

Unskilled  the  subtle  lines  to  trace, 

Or  softer  shades  of  Nature's  face, 
I  view  her  common  forms  with  unanointed  eyes. 


544677 


iv  PROEM. 

Nor  mine  the  seer-like  power  to  show 

The  secrets  of  the  heart  and  mind  ; 

To  drop  the  plummet-line  below 
Our  common  world  of  joy  and  woe, 

A  more  intense  despair  of  brighter  hope  to  find. 

Yet  here  at  least  an  earnest  sense 
Of  human  right  and  weal  is  shown ; 

A  hate  of  tyranny  intense, 

And  hearty  in  its  vehemence, 
As  if  my  brother's  pain  and  sorrow  were  my  own. 

O  Freedom  !  if  to  me  belong 

Nor  mighty  Milton's  gift  divine, 

Nor  MarvelPs  wit  and  graceful  song, 
Still  with  a  love  as, deep  and  strong 

As  theirs,  I  lay,  like  them,  my  best  gifts  on  thy  shrine ! 

AMESBURY,  \\th  mo.,  1847. 


SO    PASSED    THE     (QUAKERS    THROUGH     BOSTON    TOWN 

From  Whit  tier''  s  The  Tent  on  the  Beach 
Illustrated  by  Charles  H.  and  Marcia  Oakes  Wood  bury 


THE   MISTRESS 


From  Charles  Dudley  Warner's  Backlog  Studies 
Illustrated  by  Edmund  H.  Garrett 


CONTENTS, 


MOGG  MEGONE. 

Part  1 3 

Part  II 18 

Part  III 35 

THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK 47 

I.     The  Merrimack 52 

II.     TheBashaba 54 

III.     The  Daughter 57 

IV.     The  Wedding 61 

V.     The  New  Home 64 

VI.    At  Pennacook 67 

VII.     The  Departure 7o 

VIII.     Song  of  Indian  Women 71 

LEGENDARY. 

The  Merrimack     .                         t 75 

The  Norsemen  .                                  0 78 

Cassandra  Southwick    .                          82 

Funeral  Tree  of  the  Sokokis 91 

St.  John 95 

Pentucket 100 

The  Familist's  Hymn 103 

The  Fountain 106 

The  Exiles no 

The  New  Wife  and  the  Old 118 

VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

Toussaint  1'Ouverture •        •       .        .  125 

^The  Slave-Ships 133 


vi  CONTENTS. 

Stanzas.  Our  Countrymen  in  Chains 137 

The  Yankee  Girl 141 

.  To  W.  L.  G -  .  .  .143 

Song  of  the  Free 144 

V^he  Hunters  of  Men 146 

Clerical  Oppressors .  148 

\/The  Christian  Slave  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .150 

Stanzas  for  the  Times 152 

Lines,  written  on  reading  the  Message  of  Governor  Ritner,  of 

Pennsylvania,  1836 155 

The  Pastoral  Letter 158 

Lines,  written  for  the  meeting  of  the  Antislavery  Society,  at 

Chatham  Street  Chapel,  N.  Y.,  1834 162 

Lines,  written  for  the  Celebration  of  the  Third  Anniversary  of 

British  Emancipation,  1837 164 

Lines,  written  for  the  Anniversary  Celebration  of  the  First  of 

August,  at  Milton,  1846     ........  165 

\XThe  Farewell  of  a  Virginia  Slave  Mother  to  her  Daughters  sold 

into  Southern  Bondage  .........  167 

The  Moral  Warfare 169 

The  World's  Convention  of  the  Friends  of  Emancipation,  held 

in  London  in  1840 170 

New  Hampshire 178 

The  New  Year;  addressed  to  the  Patrons  of  the  Pennsylvania 

Freeman 179 

Massachusetts  to  Virginia 184 

The  Relic 190 

The  Branded  Hand 193 

Texas 196 

To  Faneuil  Hall 200 

To  Massachusetts 201 

The  Pine-Tree 203 

Lines,  suggested  by  a  Visit  to  the  City  of  Washington  in  the 

i2th  month  of  1845 205 

Lines,  from  a  Letter  to  a  young  Clerical  Friend  .  .  .  210 

Yorktown 212 

Lines,  written  in  the  Book  of  a  Friend 214 

Paean 220 

To  the  Memory  of  Thomas  Shipley 222 

To  a  Southern  Statesman 225 

Lines,  on  the  Adoption  of  Pinckney's  Resolutions  .  .  226 

The  Curse  of  the  Charter-Breakers 229 

The  Slaves  of  Martinique 233 

The  Crisis 238 


CONTENTS.  vii 

MISCELLANEOUS 

The  Knight  of  St.  John ,  245 

The  Holy  Land 248 

Palestine 249 

Ezekiel ,  252 

The  Wife  of  Manoah  to  her  Husband 256 

The  Cities  of  the  Plain 260 

The  Crucifixion 261 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem 263 

Hymns 266 

The  Female  Martyr 27, 

The  Frost  Spirit 274 

The  Vaudois  Teacher 2-j$ 

The  Call  of  the  Christian 277 

My  Soul  and  I 2jy 

To  a  Friend,  on  her  Return  from  Europe 286 

The  Angel  of  Patience 289 

Follen 290 

To  the  Reformers  of  England 294 

The  Quaker  of  the  Olden  Time 296 

The  Reformer 297 

The  Prisoner  for  Debt 3°* 

Lines,  written  on  reading  Pamphlets  published  by  Clergymen 

against  the  Abolition  of  the  Gallows 303 

The  Human  Sacrifice 3°7 

Randolph  of  Roanoke 313 

Democracy 3r7 

ToRonge 32O 

ChalklevHall 3" 

To  J.  P 324 

The  Cypress-Tree  of  Ceylon 324 

A  Dream  of  Summer 327 

To 328 

Leggett's  Monument 334 

SONGS  OF  LABOR,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Dedication 337 

The  Ship-Builders 339 

The  Shoemakers 341 

The  Drovers •  344 

The  Fishermen 343 

TheHuskers 35' 

The  Corn-Song 354 

The  Lumbermen        .                          ......  35" 


MOGG     MEGONE. 


1835- 


MOGG  MEGONE. 


[The  story  of  MOGG  MEGONE  has  been  considered  by  the  author  only 
as  a  framework  for  sketches  of  the  scenery  of  New  England,  and  of  its 
early  inhabitants.  In  portraying  the  Indian  character  he  has  followed, 
as  closely  as  his  story  would  admit,  the  rough  but  natural  delineations 
of  Church,  Mayhew,  Charlevoix,  and  Roger  Williams  ;  and  in  so  doing 
he  has  necessarily  discarded  much  of  the  romance  which  poets  and 
novelists  have  thrown  around  the  ill-fated  red-man.] 


PART    I. 

"\  1(  7HO  stands  on  that  cliff,  like  a  figure  of  stone, 
*  *          Unmoving  and  tall  in  the  light  of  the  sky, 

Where  the  spray  of  the  cataract  sparkles  on  high, 
Lonely  and  sternly,  save  Mogg  Megone  ?x 
Close  to  the  verge  of  the  rock  is  he, 

While  beneath  him  the  Saco  its  work  is  doing, 
Hurrying  down  to  its  grave,  the  sea, 

And  slow  through  the  rock  its  pathway  hewing  I 
Far  down,  through  the  mist  of  the  falling  river, 
Which  rises  up  like  an  incense  ever, 
The  splintered  points  of  the  crags  ^re  seen, 
With  water  howling  and  vexed  between, 
While  the  scooping  whirl  of  the  pool  beneath 
Seems  an  open  throat,  with  its  granite  teeth  ! 

But  Mogg  Megone  never  trembled  yet 
Wherever  his  eye  or  his  foot  was  set 


MOGG  MEGONE. 

He  is  watchful :  each  form  in  the  moonlight  dim, 

Of  rock  or  of  tree,  is  seen  of  him  : 

He  listens  ;  each  sound  from  afar  is  caught, 

The  faintest  shiver  of  leaf  and  limb  : 

But  he  sees  not  the  waters,  which  foam  and  fret, 

Whose  moonlit  spray  has  his  moccasin  wet,  — 

And  the  roar  of  their  rushing,  he  hears  it  not. 

The  moonlight  through  the  open  bough 

Of  the  gnarled  beech,  whose  naked  root 

Coils  like  a  serpent  at  his  foot, 
Falls,  checkered,  on  the  Indian's  brow. 
His  head  is  bare,  save  only  where 
Waves  in  the  wind  one  lock  of  hair, 

Reserved  for  him,  whoe'er  he  be, 
More  mighty  than  Megone  in  strife, 

When,  breast  to  breast  and  knee  to  knee, 
Above  the  fallen  warrior's  life 
Gleams,  quick  and  keen,  the  scalping-knife. 

Megone  hath  his  knife  and  hatchet  and  gun, 
And  his  gaudy  and  tasselled  blanket  on  : 
His  knife  hath  a  handle  with  gold  inlaid, 
And  magic  words  on  its  polished  blade,  — 
'T  was  the  gift  of  Castine2  to  Mogg  Megone, 
For  a  scalp  or  twain  from  the  Yengees  torn  : 
His  gun  was  the  gift  of  the  Tarrantine, 

And  Modocawando's  wives  had  strung 
The  brass  and  the  beads,  which  tinkle  and  shine 
On  the  polished  breech,  and  broad  bright  line 

Of  beaded  wampum  around  it  hung. 

What  seeks  Megone  ?     His  foes  are  near,  — 
Grey  Jocelyn's 3  eye  is  never  sleeping, 


MOGG  MEGONE.  5 

And  the  garrison  lights  are  burning  clear, 
Where  Phillips'  *  men  their  watch  are  keeping. 

Let  him  hie  him  away  through  the  dank  river  fog, 
Never  rustling  the  boughs  nor  displacing  the  rocks, 

For  the  eyes  and  the  ears  which  are  watching  for  Mogg 
Are  keener  than  those  of  the  wolf  or  the  fox. 

He  starts,  —  there  's  a  rustle  among  the  leaves  : 

Another,  —  the  click  of  his  gun  is  heard  ! 
A  footstep  —  is  it  the  step  of  Cleaves, 

With  Indian  blood  on  his  English  sword  ? 
Steals  Harmon  5  down  from  the  sands  of  York, 
With  hand  of  iron  and  foot  of  cork  ? 
Has  Scamman,  versed  in  Indian  wile, 
For  vengeance  left  his  vine-hung  isle  ? 6 
Hark  !  at  that  whistle,  soft  and  low, 

How  lights  the  eye  of  Mogg  Megone  ! 
A  smile  gleams  o'er  his  dusky  brow,  — 

"  Boon  welcome,  Johnny  Bonython  !  " 

Out  steps,  with  cautious  foot  and  slow, 
And  quick,  keen  glances  to  and  fro, 

The  hunted  outlaw,  Bonython  !7 
A  low,  lean,  swarthy  man  is  he, 
With  blanket-garb  and  buskined  knee, 

And  naught  of  English  fashion  on  ; 
For  he  hates  the  race  from  whence  he  sprung, 
And  he  couches  his  words  in  the  Indian  tongue. 

"  Hush,  —  let  the  Sachem's  voice  be  weak  ; 
The  water-rat  shall  hear  him  speak,  — 
The  owl  shall  whoop  in  the  white  man's  ear, 
That  Mogg  Megone,  with  his  scalps,  is  here!" 
He  pauses,  —  dark,  over  cheek  and  brow, 


MOGG  MEGONE. 

A  flush,  as  of  shame,  is  stealing  now  : 

"  Sachem !"  he  says,  "let  me  have  the  land, 

Which  stretches  away  upon  either  hand, 

As  far  about  as  my  feet  can  stray 

In  the  half  of  a  gentle  summer's  day, 

From  the  leaping  brook8  to  the  Saco  river, — 
And  the  fair-haired  girl,  thou  hast  sought  of  me, 
Shall  sit  in  the  Sachem's  wigwam,  and  be 

The  wife  of  Mogg  Megone  forever." 

There's  a  sudden  light  in  the  Indian's  glance, 
A  moment's  trace  of  powerful  feeling, 

Of  love  or  triumph,  or  both  perchance, 
Over  his  proud,  calm  features  stealing. 

"  The  words  of  my  father  are  very  good  ; 

He  shall  have  the  land,  and  water,  and  wood ; 

And  he  who  harms  the  Sagamore  John 

Shall  feel  the  knife  of  Mogg  Megone  ; 

But  the  fawn  of  the  Yengees  shall  sleep  on  my  breast, 

And  the  bird  of  the  clearing  shall  sing  in  my  nest." 

"  But,  father  ! "  —  and  the  Indian's  hand 

Falls  gently  on  the  white  man's  arm, 
And  with  a  smile  as  shrewdly  bland 

As  the  deep  voice  is  slow  and  calm,  — 
"  Where  is  my  father's  singing-bird,  — 

The  sunny  eye,  and  sunset  hair  ? 
I  know  I  have  my  father's  word. 

And  that  his  word  is  good  and  fair ; 

But  will  my  father  tell  me  where 
Megone  shall  go  and  look  for  his  bride  ?  — 
For  he  sees  her  not  by  her  father's  side." 

The  dark,  stern  eye  of  Bonython 

Flashes  over  the  features  of  Mogg  Megone, 


MOGG  ME  GONE.  7 

In  one  of  those  glances  which  search  within ; 
But  the  stolid  calm  of  the  Indian  alone 

Remains  where  the  trace  of  emotion  has  been. 
"  Does  the  Sachem  doubt  ?     Let  him  go  with  me, 
And  the  eyes  of  the  Sachem  his  bride  shall  see." 
Cautious  and  slow,  with  pauses  oft, 
And  watchful  eyes  and  whispers  soft, 
The  twain  are  stealing  through  the  wood, 
Leaving  the  downward-rushing  flood, 
Whose  deep  and  solemn  roar  behind 
Grows  fainter  on  the  evening  wind. 

Hark  !  — is  that  the  angry  howl 

Of  the  wolf  the  hills  among  ?  — 
Or  the  hooting  of  the  owl, 

On  his  leafy  cradle  swung?  — 
Quickly  glancing,  to  and  fro, 
Listening  to  each  sound  they  go 
Round  the  columns  of  the  pine, 

Indistinct,  in  shadow,  seeming 
Like  some  old  and  pillared  shrine  ; 
With  the  soft  and  white  moonshine, 
Round  the  foliage-tracery  shed 
Of  each  column's  branching  head, 

For  its  lamps  of  worship  gleaming  ! 
And  the  sounds  awakened  there, 

In  the  pine-leaves  fine  and  small, 

Soft  and  sweetly  musical, 
By  the  fingers  of  the  air, 
For  the  anthem's  dying  fall 
Lingering  round  some  temple's  wall ! 
Niche  and  cornice  round  and  round 
Wailing  like  the  ghost  of  sound  ! 
Is  not  Nature's  worship  thus, 


MOGG  MEGONE. 

Ceaseless  ever,  going  on  ? 
Hath  it  not  a  voice  for  us 

In  the  thunder,  or  the  tone 
Of  the  leaf-harp  faint  and  small, 

Speaking  to  the  unsealed  ear 

Words  of  blended  love  and,  fear, 
Of  the  mighty  Soul  of  all  ? 

Naught  had  the  twain  of  thoughts  like  these 
As  they  wound  along  through  the  crowded  trees, 
Where  never  had  rung  the  axeman's  stroke 
On  the  gnarled  trunk  of  the  rough-barked  oak  ;  • 
Climbing  the  dead  tree's  mossy  log, 
Breaking  the  mesh  of  the  bramble  fine, 
Turning  aside  the  wild  grape-vine, 
And  lightly  crossing  the  quaking  bog 
Whose  surface  shakes  at  the  leap  of  the  frog, 
And  out  of  whose  pools  the  ghostly  fog 

Creeps  into  the  chill  moonshine  ! 
Yet,  even  that  Indian's  ear  had  heard 
The  preaching  of  the  Holy  Word  : 
Sanchekantacket's  isle  of  sand 
Was  once  his  father's  hunting  land, 
Where  zealous  Hiacoomes9  stood, — 
The  wild  apostle  of  the  wood, 
Shook  from  his  soul  the  fear  of  harm, 
And  trampled  on  the  Powwaw's  charm  ; 
Until  the  wizard's  curses  hung 
Suspended  on  his  palsying  tongue, 
And  the  fierce  warrior,  grim  and  tall, 
Trembled  before  the  forest  Paul ! 

A  cottage  hidden  in  the  wood,  — 

Red  through  its  seams  a  light  is  glowing, 


MOGG  MEGONE.  9 

On  rock  and  bough  and  tree-trunk  rude, 

A  narrow  lustre  throwing. 
"  Who  's  there  ?  "  a  clear,  firm  voice  demands  ; 

"  Hold,  Ruth,  —  't  is  I,  the  Sagamore  !  " 
Quick,  at  the  summons,  hasty  hands 

Unclose  the  bolted  door ; 
And  on  the  outlaw's  daughter  shine 
The  flashes  of  the  kindled  pine. 

Tall  and  erect  the  maiden  stands, 

Like  some  young  priestess  of  the  wood, 

The  freeborn  child  of  Solitude, 

And  bearing  still  the  wild  and  rude, 
Yet  noble  trace  of  Nature's  hands. 
Her  dark  brown  cheek  has  caught  its  stain 
More  from  the  sunshine  than  the  rain  ; 
Yet,  where  her  long  fair  hair  is  parting, 
A  pure  white  brow  into  light  is  starting  ; 
And,  where  the  folds  of  her  blanket  sever, 
Are  a  neck  and  bosom  as  white  as  ever 
The  foam-wreaths  rise  on  the  leaping  river. 
But  in  the  convulsive  quiver  and  grip 
Of  the  muscles  around  her  bloodless  lip, 

There  is  something  painful  and  sad  to  see  ; 
And  her  eye  has  a  glance  more  sternly  wild 
Than  even  that  of  a  forest  child 

In  its  fearless  and  untamed  freedom  should  be, 
Yet,  seldom  in  hall  or  court  are  seen 
So  queenly  a  form  and  so  noble  a  mien, 

As  freely  and  smiling  she  welcomes  them  there,  — 
Her  outlawed  sire  and  Mogg  Megone  : 

"  Pray,  father,  how  does  thy  hunting  fare  ? 

And,  Sachem,  say,  —  does  Scamman  wear, 
In  spite  of  thy  promise,  a  scalp  of  his  own  ?  " 


I0  MOGG  MEGONE. 

Hurried  and  light  is  the  maiden's  tone  ; 

But  a  fearful  meaning  lurks  within 
Her  glance,  as  it  questions  the  eye  of  Meg  one,  - 

An  awful  meaning  of  guilt  and  sin  !  — 
The  Indian  hath  opened  his  blanket,  and  there 
Hangs  a  human  scalp  by  its  long  damp  hair  ! 
With  hand  upraised,  with  quick-drawn  breath^ 
She  meets  that  ghastly  sign  of  death. 
In  one  long,  glassy,  spectral  stare 
The  enlarging  eye  is  fastened  there, 
As  if  that  mesh  of  pale  brown  hair 

Had  power  to  change  at  sight  alone, 
Even  as  the  fearful  locks  which  wound 
Medusa's  fatal  forehead  round, 

The  gazer  into  stone. 
With  such  a  look  Herodias  read 
The  features  of  the  bleeding  head, 
So  looked  the  mad  Moor  on  his  dead, 
Or  the  young  Cenci  as  she  stood, 
O'er-dabbled  with  a  father's  blood  ! 

Look  \  —  feeling  melts  that  frozen  glance, 
It  moves  that  marble  countenance, 
As  if  at  once  within  her  strove 
Pity  with  shame,  and  hate  with  love. 
The  Past  recalls  its  joy  and  pain, 
Old  memories  rise  before  her  brain,  — 
The  lips  which  love's  embraces  met, 
The  hand  her  tears  of  parting  wet, 
The  voice  whose  pleading  tones  beguiled 
The  pleased  ear  of  the  forest-child,  — 
And  tears  she  may  no  more  repress 
Reveal  her  lingering  tenderness. 


MOGG  MEGONE.  Ir 

O,  woman  wronged  can  cherish  hate 

More  deep  and  dark  than  manhood  may  ; 
But  when  the  mockery  of  Fate 

Hath  left  Revenge  its  chosen  way, 
And  the  fell  curse,  which  years  have  nursed, 
Full  on  the  spoiler's  head  hath  burst,  — 
When  all  her  wrong,  and  shame,  and  pain 
Burns  fiercely  on  his  heart  and  brain,  — 
Still  lingers  something  of  the  spell 

Which  bound  her  to  the  traitor's  bosom,  — 
Still,  midst  the  vengeful  fires  of  hell, 

Some  flowers  of  old  affection  blossom. 

John  Bonython's  eyebrows  together  are  drawn 
With  a  fierce  expression  of  wrath  and  scorn,  — 
He  hoarsely  whispers,  "  Ruth,  beware  ! 

Is  this  the  time  to  be  playing  the  fool, — 
Crying  over  a  paltry  lock  of  hair, 

Like  a  love-sick  girl  at  school  ?  — 
Curse  on  it !  —  an  Indian  can  see  and  hear  : 
Away,  —  and  prepare  our  evening  cheer  ! " 

How  keenly  the  Indian  is  watching  now 
Her  tearful  eye  and  her  varying  brow,  — 

With  a  serpent  eye,  which  kindles  and  burns, 

Like  a  fiery  star  in  the  upper  air  : 
On  sire  and  daughter  his  fierce  glance  turns  :  — 

"  Has  my  old  white  father  a  scalp  to  spare  ? 

For  his  young  one  loves  the  pale  brown  hair 
Of  the  scalp  of  an  English  dog  far  more 
Than  Mogg  Megone,  or  his  wigwam  floor  : 

Go,  —  Mogg  is  wise  .  he  will  keep  his  land,  — 

And  Sagamore  John,  when  he  feels  with  his  hand, 
Shall  miss  his  scalp  where  it  grew  before." 


MOGG  MEG 

The  moment's  gust  of  grief  is  gone.  — 

The  Up  is  clenched,  —  the  tears  are  still,   - 
God  pity  thee,  Ruth  Bonython  ! 
With  what  a  strength  of  wul  * 
Are  nature's  feelings  in  thy  breast, 
As  with  an  iron  hand,  repressed ! 
And  how,  upon  that  nameless  woe, 
Quick  as  the  puke  can  come  and  go, 
While  shakes  the  unsteadfast  knee,  and  yet 
The  bosom  heaves,  —  the  eye  is  wet,  — 
Has  thy  dark  spirit  power  to  stay 
The  heart's  wfld  current  on  its  way  ? 

And  whence  that  baleful  strength  of  guile, 
Which  over  that  still  working  brow 
And  tearful  eye  and  cheek,  can  throw 
The  mockery  of  a  smile  ? 

-med  by  her  father  s  blackening  frown, 
' 

Grief,  hate,  remorse,  she  meets  again 
The  savage  murderer's  sullen  gate. 
And  scarcely  look  or  tone  betrays 
How  the  heart  strives  beneath  its  chain. 

*  Is  the  Sachem  angry, — angry  with  Ruth, 
Because  she  cries  with  an  ache  in  her  tooth*"* 
Which  would  make  a  Sagamore  jump  and  cry, 
And  look  about  with  a  woman's 

—  Roth  win  sit  in  the  Sachem's  door 
And  braid  the  mats  for  his  wigwam  floor, 
And  broQ  his  fish  and  tender  fawn, 
And  weave  his  wampum,  and  grind  his  corn,  — 
For  she  loves  the  brave  and  the  wise,  and  none 
Are  braver  and  wiser  than  Mogg  Megone  !* 


MOCG  MEGONE. 

The  Indian's  brow  is  clear  once  more : 

With  grave,  calm  face,  and  half-shut  eye, 
He  sits  upon  the  wigwam  floor, 

And  watches  Ruth  go  by, 
Intent  upon  her  household  care  ; 

And  ever  and  anon,  the  while, 
Or  on  the  maiden,  or  her  fare, 
Which  smokes  in  grateful  promise  there, 

Bestows  his  quiet  smile. 

Ah,  Mogg  Megone  !  —  what  dreams  are  thine, 
But  those  which  love's  own  fancies  dress,  — 
The  sum  of  Indian  happiness  !  — 
A  wigwam,  where  the  warm  sunshine 
Looks  in  among  the  groves  of  pine,  — 
A  stream,  where,  round  thy  light  canoe, 
The  trout  and  salmon  dart  in  view, 
And  the  fair  girl,  before  thee  now, 
Spreading  thy  mat  with  hand  of  snow, 
Or  plying,  in  the  dews  of  morn, 
Her  hoe  amidst  thy  patch  of  corn, 
Or  offering  up,  at  eve,  to  thee, 
Thy  birchen  dish  of  hominy  ! 

From  the  rude  board  of  Bonython, 

Venison  and  succotash  have  gone,  — 

For  long  these  dwellers  of  the  wood 

Have  felt  the  gnawing  want  of  food. 

But  untasted  of  Ruth  is  the  frugal  cheer,  — 

\Vith  head  averted,  yet  ready  ear, 

She  stands  by  the  side  of  her  austere  sire, 

Feeding,  at  times,  the  unequal  fire 

With  the  yellow  knots  of  the  pitch-pine  tree, 

Whose  flaring  light,  as  they  kindle,  falls 


14  MOGG  ME  GONE. 

On  the  cottage-roof,  and  its  black  log  walls, 
And  over  its  inmates  three. 


From  Sagamore  Bonython's  hunting  flask 

The  fire-water  burns  at  the  lip  of  Megone  : 
"  Will  the  Sachem  hear  what  his  father  shall  ask  ? 

Will  he  make  his  mark,  that  it  may  be  known, 
On  the  speaking-leaf,  that  he  gives  the  land, 
From  the  Sachem's  own,  to  his  father's  hand  ? " 
The  fire-water  shines  in  the  Indian's  eyes, 

As  he  rises,  the  white  man's  bidding  to  do  : 
"  Wuttamuttata  —  weekan  !  u  Mogg  is  wise,  — 

For  the  water  he  drinks  is  strong  and  new,  — 
Mogg's  heart  is  great !  —  will  he  shut  his  hand, 
When  his  father  asks  for  a  little  land  ? "  — 
With  unsteady  fingers,  the  Indian  has  drawn 

On  the  parchment  the  shape  of  a  hunter's  bow, 
"  Boon  water,  —  boon  water,  —  Sagamore  John  ! 

Wuttamuttata,  —  weekan  !  our  hearts  will  grow  !  " 
He  drinks  yet  deeper,  —  he  mutters  low,  — 
He  reels  on  his  bear-skin  to  and  fro,  — 
His  head  falls  down  on  his  naked  breast,  — 
He  struggles,  and  sinks  to  a  drunken  rest. 

"  Humph  —  drunk  as  a  beast !  "  —  and  Bonython's  brow 

Is  darker  than  ever  with  evil  thought  — 
u  The  fool  has  signed  his  warrant ;  but  how 

And  when  shall  the  deed  be  wrought  ? 
Speak,  Ruth !  why,  what  the  devil  is  there, 
To  fix  thy  gaze  in  that  empty  air?  — 
Speak,  Ruth  !  by  my  soul,  if  I  thought  that  tear, 
Which  shames  thyself  and  our  purpose  here, 
Were  shed  for  that  cursed  and  pale-faced  dog, 
Whose  green  scalp  hangs  from  the  belt  of  Mogg, 


MOGG  MEGONE.  15 

And  whose  beastly  soul  is  in  Satan's  keeping,  — 
This  —  this  !"  —  he  dashes  his  hand  upon 
The  rattling  stock  of  his  loaded  gun,  — 

"  Should  send  thee  with  him  to  do  thy  weeping  1" 

"  Father !  "  the  eye  of  Bonython 
Sinks  at  that  low,  sepulchral  tone, 
Hollow  and  deep,  as  it  were  spoken 

By  the  unmoving  tongue  of  death,  — 
Or  from  some  statue's  lips  had  broken,  — 

A  sound  without  a  breath  ! 
"  Father  !  —  my  life  I  value  less 
Than  yonder  fool  his  gaudy  dress  ; 
And  how  it  ends  it  matters  not, 
By  heart-break  or  by  rifle-shot  ; 
But  spare  awhile  the  scoff  and  threat,  — 
Our  business  is  not  finished  yet." 

"  True,  true,  my  girl,  —  I  only  meant 
To  draw  up  again  the  bow  unbent. 
Harm  thee,  my  Ruth  !  I  only  sought 
To  frighten  off  thy  gloomy  thought  ;  — 
Come,  —  let 's  be  friends ! "     He  seeks  to  clasp 
His  daughter's  cold,  damp  hand  in  his. 
Ruth  startles  from  her  father's  grasp, 
As  if  each  nerve  and  muscle  felt, 
Instinctively,  the  touch  of  .guilt, 
Through  all  their  subtle  sympathies. 

He  points  her  to  the  sleeping  Mogg  : 
"  What  shall  be  done  with  yonder  dog  ? 
Scamman  is  dead,  and  revenge  is  thine,  — 
The  deed  is  signed  and  the  land  is  mine  ; 
And  this  drunken  fool  is  of  use  no  more, 


1 6  MOGG  MEGONE. 

Save  as  thy  hopeful  bridegroom,  and  sooth, 
'T  were  Christian  mercy  to  finish  him,  Ruth, 
Now,  while  he  lies  like  a  beast  on  our  floor,  — 
If  not  for  thine,  at  least  for  his  sake, 
Rather  than  let  the  poor  dog  awake 
To  drain  my  flask,  and  claim  as  his  bride 
Such  a  forest  devil  to  run  by  his  side,  — 
Such  a  Wetuomanit12  as  thou  wouldst  make  .'" 

He  laughs  at  his  jest.     Hush  —  what  is  there  ?  — 
The  sleeping  Indian  is  striving  to  rise, 
With  his  knife  in  his  hand,  and  glaring  eyes  !  — 
"  Wagh  !  —  Mogg  will  have  the  pale-face's  hair, 

For  his  knife  is  sharp,  and  his  fingers  can  help 
The  hair  to  pull,  and  the  skin  to  peel,  — 
Let  him  cry  like  a  woman  and  twist  like  an  eel, 

The  great  Captain  Scamman  must  lose  his  scalp  ! 
And  Ruth,  when  she  sees  it,  shall  dance  with  Mogg." 
His  eyes  are  fixed,  —  but  his  lips  draw  in,  — 
With  a  low,  hoarse  chuckle,  and  fiendish  grin,  — 
And  he  sinks  again,  like  a  senseless  log. 

Ruth  does  not  speak,  —  she  does  not  stir  ; 

But  she  gazes  down  on  the  murderer, 

Whose  broken  and  dreamful  slumbers  tell 

Too  much  for  her  ear  of  that  deed  of  hell. 

She  sees  the  knife,  with  its  slaughter  red, 

And  the  dark  fingers  clenching  the  bear-skin  bed ! 

What  thoughts  of  horror  and  madness  whirl 

Through  the  burning  brain  of  that  fallen  girl ! 

John  Bonython  lifts  his  gun  to  his  eye, 
Its  muzzle  is  close  to  the  Indian's  ear,  — 

But  he  drops  it  again.     "  Some  one  may  be  nigh, 
And  I  would  not  that  even  the  wolves  should  hear/ 


MOGG  MEGONE.  17 

He  draws  his  knife  from  its  deer-skin  belt,  — 
Its  edge  with  his  fingers  is  slowly  felt ;  — 
Kneeling  down  on  one  knee,  by  the  Indian's  side, 
From  his  throat  he  opens  the  blanket  wide  ; 
And  twice  or  thrice  he  feebly  essays 
A  trembling  hand  with  the  knife  to  raise. 

"  I  cannot,"  —  he  mutters,  —  "  did  he  not  save 

My  life  from  a  cold  and  wintry  grave, 

When  the  storm  carfie  down  from  Agioochook, 

And  the  north-wind  howled,  and  the  tree-tops  shook,  — 

And  I  strove,  in  the  drifts  of  the  rushing  snow, 

Till  my  knees  grew  weak  and  I  could  not  go, 

And  I  felt  the  cold  to  my  vitals  creep, 

And  my  heart's  blood  stiffen,  and  pulses  sleep  ! 

I  cannot  strike  him  —  Ruth  Bonython  ! 

In  the  Devil's  name,  tell  me  - —  what 's  to  be  done  ?  " 

O,  when  the  soul,  once  pure  and  high, 
Is  stricken  down  from  Virtue's  sky, 
As,  with  the  downcast  star  of  morn, 
Some  gems  of  light  are  with  it  drawn,  — 
And,  through  its  night  of  darkness,  play 
Some  tokens  of  its  primal  day,  — 
Some  lofty  feelings  linger  still,  — 

The  strength  to  dare,  the  nerve  to  meet 

Whatever  threatens  with  defeat 
Its  all-indomitable  will !  — 
But  lacks  the  mean  of  mind  and  heart, 

Though  eager  for  the  gains  of  crime, 

Oft,  at  his  chosen  place  and  time, 
The  strength  to  bear  his  evil  part  ; 
And,  shielded  by  his  very  Vice, 
Escapes  from  Crime  by  Cowardice. 


MO  GO  MEGONE. 

Ruth  starts  erect,  —  with  bloodshot  eye, 
And  lips  drawn  tight  across  her  teeth, 
Showing  their  locked  embrace  beneath, 
In  the  red  fire-light  :  —  "  Mogg  must  die  ! 
Give  me  the  knife  !  "  —  The  outlaw  turns, 
Shuddering  in  heart  and  limb,  away,  — 
But,  fitfully  there,  the  hearth-fire  burns, 

And  he  sees  on  the  wall  strange  shadows  play. 
A  lifted  arm,  a  tremulous  blade, 
Are  dimly  pictured  in  light  and  shade, 

Plunging  down  in  the  darkness.     Hark,  that  cry 
Again  —  and  again  —  he  sees  it  fall,  — 
That  shadowy  arm  down  the  lighted  wall ! 

He  hears  quick  footsteps  —  a  shape  flits  by  — 
The  door  on  its  rusted  hinges  creaks  :  — 
"  Ruth  —  daughter  Ruth  !  "  the  outlaw  shrieks. 
But  no  sound  comes  back,  —  he  is  standing  alone 
By  the  mangled  corse  of  Mogg  Megone ! 


PART    II. 

'T  IS  morning  over  Norridgewock,  — 
On  tree  and  wigwam,  wave  and  rock. 
Bathed  in  the  autumnal  sunshine,  stirred 
At  intervals  by  breeze  and  bird, 
And  wearing  all  the  hues  which  glow 
In  heaven's  own  pure  and  perfect  bow, 

That  glorious  picture  of  the  air, 
Which  summer's  light-robed  angel  forms 
On  the  dark  ground  of  fading  storms, 

With  pencil  dipped  in  sunbeams  there, 


MOGG  MEGONE. 

And,  stretching  out,  on  either  hand, 

O'er  all  that  wide  and  unshorn  land, 

Till,  weary  of  its  gorgeousness, 

The  aching  and  the  dazzled  eye 

Rests  gladdened,  on  the  calm  blue  sky,  — 

Slumbers  the  mighty  wilderness  ! 
The  oak,  upon  the  windy  hill, 

Its  dark  green  burthen  upward  heaves  — 
The  hemlock  broods  above  its  rill, 
Its  cone-like  foliage  darker  still, 

Against  the  birch's  graceful  stem, 
And  the  rough  walnut-bough  receives 
The  sun  upon  its  crowded  leaves, 

Each  colored  like  a  topaz  gem  ; 

And  the  tall  maple  wears  with  them 
The  coronal  which  autumn  gives, 

The  brief,  bright  sign  of  ruin  near, 

The  hectic  of  a  dying  year  ! 

The  hermit  priest,  who  lingers  now 
On  the  Bald  Mountain's  shrubless  brow, 
The  gray  and  thunder-smitten  pile 
Which  marks  afar  the  Desert  Isle,13 

While  gazing  on  the  scene  below, 
May  half  forget  the  dreams  of  home, 

That  nightly  with  his  slumbers  come,  — 
The  tranquil  skies  of  sunny  France, 
The  peasant's  harvest  song  and  dance, 
The  vines  around  the  hillsides  wreathing 
The  soft  airs  midst  their  clusters  breathing, 
The  wings  which  dipped,  the  stars  which  shone 
Within  thy  bosom,  blue  Garonne  ! 
And  round  the  Abbey's  shadowed  wall, 
At  morning  spring  and  even-fall, 


20  MOGG  MEGONE. 

Sweet  voices  in  the  still  air  singing,  — 
The  chant  of  many  a  holy  hymn,  — 

The  solemn  bell  of  vespers  ringing,  — - 
And  hallowed  torch-light  falling  dim 

On  pictured  saint  and  seraphim  ! 
For  here  beneath  him  lies  unrolled, 
Bathed  deep  in  morning's  flood  of  gold, 
A  vision  gorgeous  as  the  dream 
Of  the  beatified  may  seem, 

When,  as  his  Church's  legends  say, 
Borne  upward  in  ecstatic  bliss, 

The  rapt  enthusiast  soars  away 
Unto  a  brighter  world  than  this  : 
A  mortal's  glimpse  beyond  the  pale,  — 
A  moment's  lifting  of  the  veil ! 

Far  eastward  o'er  the  lovely  bay, 
Penobscot's  clustered  wigwams  lay  ; 
And  gently  from  that  Indian  town 
The  verdant  hillside  slopes  adown, 
To  where  the  sparkling  waters  play 

Upon  the  yellow  sands  below  ; 
And  shooting  round  the  winding  shores 

Of  narrow  capes,  and  isles  which  lie 

Slumbering  to  ocean's  lullaby,  — 
With  birchen  boat  and  glancing  oars, 

The  red  men  to  their  fishing  go  ; 
While  from  their  planting  ground  is  borne 
The  treasure  of  the  golden  corn, 
By  laughing  girls,  whose  dark  eyes  glow 
Wild  through  the  locks  which  o'er  them  flow. 
The  wrinkled  squaw,  whose  toil  is  done, 
Sits  on  her  bear-skin  in  the  sun, 
Watching  the  huskers,  with  a  smile 


MOGG  MEGONE.  2i 

For  each  full  ear  which  swells  the  pile; 
And  the  old  chief,  who  nevermore 
May  bend  the  bow  or  pull  the  oar, 
Smokes  gravely  in  his  wigwam  door, 
Or  slowly  shapes,  with  axe  of  stone, 
The  arrow-head  from  flint  and  bone. 

Beneath  the  westward  turning  eye 
A  thousand  wooded  islands  lie,  — 
Gems  of  the  waters  !  —  with  each  hue 
Of  brightness  set  in  ocean's  blue. 
Each  bears  aloft  its  tuft  of  trees 

Touched  by  the  pencil  of  the  frost, 
And,  with  the  motion  of  each  breeze, 

A  moment  seen,  —  a  moment  lost,  — 

Changing  and  blent,  confused  and  tossed. 

The  brighter  with  the  darker  crossed, 
Their  thousand  tints  of  beauty  glow 
Down  in  the  restless  waves  below, 

And  tremble  in  the  sunny  skies, 
As  if,  from  waving  bough  to  bough, 

Flitted  the  birds  of  paradise. 
There  sleep  Placentia's  group,  —  and  there 
Pere  Breteaux  marks  the  hour  of  prayer ; 
And  there,  beneath  the  sea-worn  cliff, 

On  which  the  Father's  hut  is  seen, 
The  Indian  stays  his  rocking  skiff, 

And  peers  the  hemlock-boughs  between, 
Half  trembling,  as  he  seeks  to  look 
Upon  the  Jesuit's  Cross  and  Book.1* 
There,  gloomily  against  the  sky 
The  Dark  Isles  rear  their  summits  high  ; 
And  Desert  Rock,  abrupt  and  bare, 
Lifts  its  gray  turrets  in  the  air,  — 


22  MOGG  MEGONE. 

Seen  from  afar,  like  some  stronghold 
Built  by  the  ocean  kings  of  old  ; 
And,  faint  as  smoke-wreath  white  and  thin? 
Swells  in  the  north  vast  Katahdin  : 
And,  wandering  from  its  marshy  feet, 
The  broad  Penobscot  comes  to  meet 

And  mingle  with  his  own  bright  bay. 
Slow  sweep  his  dark  and  gathering  floods, 
Arched  over  by  the  ancient  woods, 
Which  Time,  in  those  dim  solitudes, 

Wielding  the  dull  axe  of  Decay, 

Alone  hath  ever  shorn  away. 

Not  thus,  within  the  woods  which  hide 
The  beauty  of  thy  azure  tide, 

And  with  their  falling  timbers  block 
Thy  broken  currents,  Kennebec  ! 
Gazes  the  white  man  on  the  wreck 

Of  the  down-trodden  Norridgewock,  — 
In  one  lone  village  hemmed  at  length, 
In  battle  shorn  of  half  their  strength, 
Turned,  like  the  panther  in  his  lair, 

With  his  fast-flowing  life-blood  wet, 
For  one  last  struggle  of  despair. 

Wounded  and  faint,  but  tameless  yet ! 
Unreaped,  upon  the  planting  lands, 
The  scant,  neglected  harvest  stands : 

No  shout  is  there,  —  no  dance,  —  no  song 
The  aspect  of  the  very  child 
Scowls  with  a  meaning  sad  and  wild 

Of  bitterness  and  wrong. 
The  almost  infant  Norridgewock 
Essays  to  lift  the  tomahawk  ; 
And  plucks  his  father's  knife  away, 


MOGG  MEGONE.  23 

To  mimic,  in  his  frightful  play, 

The  scalping  of  an  English  foe : 
Wreathes  on  his  lip  a  horrid  smile, 
Burns,  like  a  snake's,  his  small  eye,  while 

Some  bough  or  sapling  meets  his  blow. 
The  fisher,  as  he  drops  his  line, 
Starts,  when  he  sees  the  hazels  quiver 
Along  the  margin  of  the  river, 
Looks  up  and  down  the  rippling  tide, 
And  grasps  the  firelock  at  his  side. 
For  Bomazeen 15  from  Tacconock 
Has  sent  his  runners  to  Norridgewock, 
With  tidings  that  Moulton  and  Harmon  of  York 

Far  up  the  river  have  come  : 

They  have  left  their  boats,  —  they  have  entered  the  wood, 
And  filled  the  depths  of  the  solitude 

With  the  sound  of  the  ranger's  drum. 

On  the  brow  of  a  hill,  which  slopes  to  meet 
The  flowing  river,  and  bathe  its  feet,  — 
The  bare-washed  rock,  and  the  drooping  grass, 
And  the  creeping  vine,  as  the  waters  pass,  — 
A  rude  and  unshapely  chapel  stands, 
Built  up  in  that  wild  by  unskilled  hands  : 
Yet  the  traveller  knows  it  a  place  of  prayer, 
For  the  holy  sign  of  the  cross  is  there : 
And  should  he  chance  at  that  place  to  be, 

Of  a  Sabbath  morn,  or  some  hallowed  day, 
When  prayers  are  made  and  masses  are  said, 
Some  for  the  living  and  some  for  the  dead, 
Well  might  that  traveller  start  to  see 

The  tall  dark  forms,  that  take  their  way 
From  the  birch  canoe,  on  the  river-shore, 
And  the  forest  paths,  to  that  chapel  door ; 


MOCG  ME  GONE. 

And  marvel  to  mark  the  naked  knees 
And  the  dusky  foreheads  bending  there, 

While,  in  coarse  white  vesture,  over  these 
In  blessing  or  in  prayer, 

Stretching  abroad  his  thin  pale  hands, 

Like  a  shrouded  ghost,  the  Jesuit 16  stands. 

Two  forms  are  now  in  that  chapel  dim, 
The  Jesuit,  silent  and  sad  and  pale, 
Anxiously  heeding  some  fearful  tale, 
Which  a  stranger  is  telling  him. 
That  stranger's  garb  is  soiled  and  torn, 
And  wet  with  dew  and  loosely  worn  ; 
Her  fair  neglected  hair  falls  down 
O'er  cheeks  with  wind  and  sunshine  brown  5 
Yet  still,  in  that  disordered  face, 
The  Jesuit's  cautious  eye  can  trace 
Those  elements  of  former  grace 
Which,  half  effaced,  seem  scarcely  less, 
Even  now,  than  perfect  loveliness. 

With  drooping  head,  and  voice  so  low 
That  scarce  it  meets  the  Jesuit's  ears,  — 

While  through  her  claspe'd  fingers  flow, 

From  the  heart's  fountain,  hot  and  slow, 
Her  penitential  tears,  — 

She  tells  the  story  of  the  woe 
And  evil  of  her  years. 

"  O  father,  bear  with  me  ;  my  heart 
Is  sick  and  death-like,  and  my  brain 
Seems  girdled  with  a  fiery  chain, 

Whose  scorching  links  will  never  part, 
And  never  cool  again. 


MOGG  MEGONE. 

Bear  with  me  while  I  speak,  —  but  turn 
Away  that  gentle  eye,  the  while,  — 

The  fires  of  guilt  more  fiercely  burn 
Beneath  its  holy  smile  ; 

For  half  I  fancy  I  can  see 

My  mother's  sainted  look  in  thee. 

"  My  dear  lost  mother  !  sad  and  pale, 

Mournfully  sinking  day  by  day, 
And  with  a  hold  on  life  as  frail 

As  frosted  leaves,  that,  thin  and  gray, 
Hang  feebly  on  their  parent  spray, 
And  tremble  in  the  gale  ; 
Yet  watching  o'er  my  childishness 
With  patient  fondness,  —  not  the  less 
For  all  the  agony  which  kept 
Her  blue  eye  wakeful,  while  I  slept ; 
And  checking  every  tear  and  groan 
That  haply  might  have  waked  my  own, 
And  bearing  still,  without  offence, 
My  idle  words,  and  petulance  ; 

Reproving  with  a  tear,  —  and,  while 
The  tooth  of  pain  was  keenly  preying 
Upon  her  very  heart,  repaying 
My  brief  repentance  with  a  smile. 

"  O,  in  her  meek,  forgiving  eye 

There  was  a  brightness  not  of  mirth, 

A  light  whose  clear  intensity 
Was  borrowed  not  of  earth. 

Along  her  cheek  a  deepening  red 

Told  where  the  feverish  hectic  fed  ; 
And  yet,  each  fatal  token  gave 

To  the  mild  beauty  of  her  face 


26  MOGG  MEGONE. 

A  newer  and  a  dearer  grace, 

Unwarning  of  the  grave. 
'T  was  like  the  hue  which  Autumn  gives 
To  yonder  changed  and  dying  leaves, 

Breathed  over  by  his  frosty  breath  ; 
Scarce  can  the  gazer  feel  that  this 
Is  but  the  spoiler's  treacherous  kiss, 

The  mocking-smile  of  Death  ! 

"  Sweet  were  the  tales  she  used  to  tell 

When  summer's  eve  was  dear  to  us, 
And,  fading  from  the  darkening  dell, 
The  glory  of  the  sunset  fell 

On  wooded  Agamenticus,  — 
When,  sitting  by  our  cottage  wall, 
The  murmur  of  the  Saco's  fall, 

And  the  south-wind's  expiring  sighs 
Came,  softly  blending,  on  my  ear, 
With  the  low  tones  I  loved  to  hear  : 

Tales  of  the  pure,  —  the  good,  —  the  wise, 
The  holy  men  and  maids  of  old, 
In  the  all-sacred  pages  told  ;  — 
Of  Rachel,  stooped  at  Haran's  fountains, 

Amid  her  father's  thirsty  flock, 
Beautiful  to  her  kinsman  seeming 
As  the  bright  angels  of  his  dreaming, 

On  Padan-aran's  holy  rock  ; 
Of  gentle  Ruth,  —  and  her  who  kept 

Her  awful  vigil  on  the  mountains, 
By  Israel's  virgin  daughters  wept  ; 
Of  Miriam,  with  her  maidens,  singing 

The  song  for  grateful  Israel  meet, 
While  every  crimson  wave  was  bringing 

The  spoils  of  Egypt  at  her  feet ; 


MOGG  MEGONE. 

Of  her,  —  Samaria's  humble  daughter, 
Who  paused  to  hear,  beside  her  well, 
Lessons  of  love  and  truth,  which  fell 

Softly  as  Shiloh's  flowing  water  ; 
And  saw,  beneath  his  pilgrim  guise, 

The  Promised  One,  so  long  foretold 

By  holy  seer  and  bard  of  old, 

Revealed  before  her  wondering  eyes  1 

"  Slowly  she  faded.     Day  by  day 
Her  step  grew  weaker  in  our  hall, 
And  fainter,  at  each  even-fall, 

Her  sad  voice  died  away. 
Yet  on  her  thin,  pale  lip,  the  while, 
Sat  Resignation's  holy  smile  : 
And  even  my  father  checked  his  tread, 
And  hushed  his  voice,  beside  her  bed  : 
Beneath  the  calm  and  sad  rebuke 
Of  her  meek  eye's  imploring  look, 
The  scowl  of  hate  his  brow  forsook, 

And  in  his  stern  and  gloomy  eye, 
At  times,  a  few  unwonted  tears 
Wet  the  dark  lashes,  which  for  years 

Hatred  and  pride  had  kept  so  dry. 

"  Calm  as  a  child  to  slumber  soothed, 
As  if  an  angel's  hand  had  smoothed 

The  still,  white  features  into  rest, 
Silent  and  cold,  without  a  breath 

To  stir  the  drapery  on  her  breast, 
Pain,  with  its  keen  and  poisoned  fang, 
The  horror  of  the  mortal  pang, 
The  suffering  look  her  brow  had  worn, 
The  fear,  the  strife,  the  anguish  gone,  - 

She  slept  at  last  in  death  1 


27 


28  MOGG  MEGONE. 

"  O,  tell  me,  father,  can  the  dead 
Walk  on  the  earth,  and  look  on  us, 

And  lay  upon  the  living's  head 
Their  blessing  or  their  curse  ? 

For,  O,  last  night  she  stood  by  me, 

As  I  lay  beneath  the  woodland  tree  !  " 

The  Jesuit  crosses  himself  in  awe,  — 
"  Jesu  !  what  was  it  my  daughter  saw  ?  " 

"  She  came  to  me  last  night. 

The  dried  leaves  did  not  feel  her  tread  ; 
She  stood  by  me  in  the  wan  moonlight, 

In  the  white  robes  of  the  dead  1 
Pale,  and  very  mournfully 
She  bent  her  light  form  over  me. 
I  heard  no  sound,  I  felt  no  breath 
Breathe  o'er  me  from  that  face  of  death  : 
Its  blue  eyes  rested  on  my  own, 
Rayless  and  cold  as  eyes  of  stone  ; 
Yet,  in  their  fixed,  unchanging  gaze, 
Something,  which  spoke  of  early  days,  — 
A  sadness  in  their  quiet  glare, 
As  if  love's  smile  were  frozen  there,  — 
Came  o'er  me  with  an  icy  thrill ; 
O  God  !  I  feel  its  presence  still ! " 


The  Jesuit  makes  the  holy  sign,  — • 

"  How  passed  the  vision,  daughter  mine  ? 

"  All  dimly  in  the  wan  moonshine, 
As  a  wreath  of  mist  will  twist  and  twine, 
And  scatter,  and  melt  into  the  light,  — 
So  scattering,  —  melting  on  my  sight, 


MOGG  MEGONB. 

The  pale,  cold  vision  passed  ; 
But  those  sad  eyes  were  fixed  on  mine 
Mournfully  to  the  last." 

"  God  help  thee,  daughter,  tell  me  why 
That  spirit  passed  before  thine  eye  ! " 

"  Father,  I  know  not,  save  it  be 

That  deeds  of  mine  have  summoned  her 
From  the  unbreathing  sepulchre, 
To  leave  her  last  rebuke  with  me. 
Ah,  woe  for  me  !  my  mother  died 
Just  at  the  moment  when  I  stood 
Close  on  the  verge  of  womanhood, 
A  child  in  everything  beside  ; 
And  when  my  wild  heart  needed  most 
Her  gentle  counsels,  they  were  lost. 

"  My  father  lived  a  stormy  life, 
Of  frequent  change  and  daily  strife  ; 
And,  —  God  forgive  him  !  left  his  child 
To  feel,  like  him,  a  freedom  wild  ; 
To  love  the  red  man's  dwelling-place, 

The  birch  boat  on  his  shaded  floods, 
The  wild  excitement  of  the  chase 

Sweeping  the  ancient  woods, 
The  camp-fire,  blazing  on  the  shore 

Of  the  still  lakes,  the  clear  stream,  where 

The  idle  fisher  sets  his  wear, 
Or  angles  in  the  shade,  far  more 

Than  that  restraining  awe  I  felt 
Beneath  my  gentle  mother's  care, 

When  nightly  at  her  knee  I  knelt, 
With  childhood's  simple  prayer. 


29 


30  MO G G  MEGONE. 

"  There  came  a  change.     The  wild,  glad  mood 

Of  unchecked  freedom  passed. 
Amid  the  ancient  solitude 
Of  unshorn  grass  and  waving  wood, 

And  waters  glancing  bright  and  fast, 
A  softened  voice  was  in  my  ear, 
Sweet  as  those  lulling  sounds  and  fine 
The  hunter  lifts  his  head  to  hear, 
Now  far  and  faint,  now  full  and  near  — 

The  murmur  of  the  wind-swept  pine. 
A  manly  form  was  ever  nigh, 
A  bold,  free  hunter,  with  an  eye 

Whose  dark,  keen  glance  had  power  to  wake 
Both  fear  and  love,  —  to  awe  and  charm  ; 

'T  was  as  the  wizard  rattlesnake, 
Whose  evil  glances  lure  to  harm  — 
Whose  cold  and  small  and  glittering  eye, 
And  brilliant  coil,  and  changing  dye, 
Draw,  step  by  step,  the  gazer  near, 
With  drooping  wing  and  cry  of  fear, 
Yet  powerless  all  to  turn  away, 
A  conscious,  but  a  willing  prey  ! 

Fear,  doubt,  thought,  life  itself,  erelong 
Merged  in  one  feeling  deep  and  strong. 
Faded  the  world  which  I  had  known, 

A  poor  vain  shadow,  cold  and  waste  ; 
In  the  warm  present  bliss  alone 

Seemed  I  of  actual  life  to  taste. 
Fond  longings  dimly  understood, 
The  glow  of  passion's  quickening  blood, 
And  cherished  fantasies  which  press 
The  young  lip  with  a  dream's  caress, — 
The  heart's  forecast  and  prophecy 


MOGG  MEG  ONE. 

Took  form  and  life  before  my  eye, 
Seen  in  the  glance  which  met  my  own, 
Heard  in  the  soft  and  pleading  tone, 
Felt  in  the  arms  around  me  cast, 
And  warm  heart-pulses  beating  fast. 
Ah  !  scarcely  yet  to  God  above 
With  deeper  trust,  with  stronger  love 
Has  prayerful  saint  his  meek  heart  lent, 
Or  cloistered  nun  at  twilight  bent, 
Than  I,  before  a  human  shrine, 
As  mortal  and  as  frail  as  mine, 
With  heart,  and  soul,  and  mind,  and  form, 
Knelt  madly  to  a  fellow-worm. 

"  Full  soon,  upon  that  dream  of  sin, 
An  awful  light  came  bursting  in. 
The  shrine  was  cold  at  which  I  knelt, 

The  idol  of  that  shrine  was  gone  ; 
A  humbled  thing  of  shame  and  guilt, 

Outcast,  and  spurned  and  lone, 
Wrapt  in  the  shadows  of  my  crime, 

With  withering  heart  and  burning  brain, 

And  tears  that  fell  like  fiery  rain, 
I  passed  a  fearful  time. 

"  There  came  a  voice  —  it  checked  the  tear 

In  heart  and  soul  it  wrought  a  change  ;  — 
My  father's  voice  was  in  my  ear  ; 

It  whispered  of  revenge  ! 
A  new  and  fiercer  feeling  swept 

All  lingering  tenderness  away  ; 
And  tiger  passions,  which  had  slept 

In  childhood's  better  day, 
Unknown,  unfelt,  arose  at  length 
In  all  their  own  demoniac  strength. 


3  2  MOGG  MEGONE. 

"  A  youthful  warrior  of  the  wild, 
By  words  deceived,  by  smiles  beguiled, 
Of  crime  the  cheated  instrument, 
Upon  our  fatal  errands  went. 

Through  camp  and  town  and  wilderness 
He  tracked  his  victim  ;  and,  at  last, 
Just  when  the  tide  of  hate  had  passed, 
And  milder  thoughts  came  warm  and  fast, 
Exulting,  at  my  feet  he  cast 

The  bloody  token  of  success. 

"  O  God  !  with  what  an  awful  power 

I  saw  the  buried  past  uprise, 
And  gather,  in  a  single  hour, 

Its  ghost-like  memories  ! 
And  then  I  felt  —  alas  !  too  late  — 
That  underneath  the  mask  of  hate, 
That  shame  and  guilt  and  wrong  had  thrown 
O'er  feelings  which  they  might  not  own, 

The  heart's  wild  love  had  known  no  change ; 
And  still,  that  deep  and  hidden  love, 
With  its  first  fondness,  wept  above 

The  victim  of  its  own  revenge  ! 
There  lay  the  fearful  scalp,  and  there 
The  blood  was  on  its  pale  brown  hair  ! 
I  thought  not  of  the  victim's  scorn, 

I  thought  not  of  his  baleful  guile, 
My  deadly  wrong,  my  outcast  name, 
The  characters  of  sin  and  shame 
On  heart  and  forehead  drawn  ; 

I  only  saw  that  victim's  smile,  — 
The  still,  green  places  where  we  met.  — • 
The  moonlit  branches,  dewy  wet ; 
I  only  felt,  I  only  heard 


MOGG  MEGONE.  33 

The  greeting  and  the  parting  word,  — 

The  smib,  —  the  embrace,  —  the  tone,  which  made 

An  Eden  of  the  forest  r;hade. 

"  And  oh  !  with  what  a  loathing  eye, 

With  what  a  deadly  hate,  and  deep, 
I  saw  that  Indian  murderer  lie 

Before  me,  in  his  drunken  sleep  ! 
What  though  for  me  the  deed  was  done, 
And  words  of  mine  had  sped  him  on ! 
Yet  when  he  murmured,  as  he  slept, 

The  horrors  of  that  deed  of  blood, 
The  tide  of  utter  madness  swept 

O'er  brain  and  bosom,  like  a  flood. 
And,  father,  with  this  hand  of  mine  —  " 

"  Ha  !  what  didst  thou  ?  "  the  Jesuit  cries, 
Shuddering,  a,s  smitten  with  sudden  pain, 

And  shading,  with  one  thin  hand,  his  eyes, 
With  the  other  he  makes  the  holy  sign. 
" —  I  smote  him  as  I  would  a  worm ;  — 
With  heart  as  steeled,  with  nerves  as  firm : 

He  never  woke  again  !  " 

''  Woman  of  sin  and  blood  and  shame, 
Speak,  —  I  would  know  that  victim's  name." 

"  Father,"  she  gasped,  "  a  chieftain,  known 
As  Saco's  Sachem,  —  MOGG  MEGONE  !  " 

Pale  priest !     What  proud  and  lofty  dreams, 
What  keen  desires,  what  cherished  schemes, 
What  hopes,  that  time  may  not  recall, 
Are  darkened  by  that  chieftain's  fall ! 
a* 


34 


MOGG  MEGONE. 

Was  he  not  pledged,  by  cross  and  vow, 

To  lift  the  hatchet  of  his  sire, 
And,  round  his  own,  the  Church's  foe, 

To  light  the  avenging  fire  ? 
Who  now  the  Tarrantine  shall  wake, 
For  thine  and  for  the  Church's  sake  ? 

Who  summon  to  the  scene 
Of  conquest  and  unsparing  strife, 
And  vengeance  dearer  than  his  life, 


The  fiery-souled  Castine  ?  " 


Three  backward  steps  the  Jesuit  takes,  — 
His  long,  thin  frame  as  ague  shakes  ; 

And  loathing  hate  is  in  his  eye, 
As  from  his  lips  these  words  of  fear 
Fall  hoarsely  on  the  maiden's  ear,  — 

"  The  soul  that  sinneth  shall  surely  die  !  " 

She  stands,  as  stands  the  stricken  deer, 
Checked  midway  in  the  fearful  chase, 

When  bursts  upon  his  eye  and  ear 

The  gaunt,  gray  robber,  baying  near, 
Between  him  and  his  hiding-place  ; 

While  still  behind,  with  yell  and  blow, 

Sweeps,  like  a  storm,  the  coming  foe. 

"  Save  me,  O  holy  man  !  "  —  her  cry 
Fills  all  the  void,  as  if  a  tongue, 
Unseen,  from  rib  and  rafter  hung, 

Thrilling  with  mortal  agony  ; 

Her  hands  are  clasping  the  Jesuit's  knee, 
And  her  eye  looks  fearfully  into  his  own ;  — 

"  Off,  woman  of  sin  !  —  nay,  touch  not  me 
With  those  fingers  of  blood  ;  —  begone  !  " 

With  a  gesture  of  horror,  he  spurns  the  form 

That  writhes  at  his  feet  like  a  trodden  worm. 


MOGG  MEGONE.  35 

Ever  thus  the  spirit  must, 

Guilty  in  the  sight  of  Heaven, 

With  a  keener  woe  be  riven, 
For  its  weak  and  sinful  trust 
In  the  strength  of  human  dust ; 

And  its  anguish  thrill  afresh, 
For  each  vain  reliance  given 

To  the  failing  arm  of  flesh. 


PART    III. 

AH,  weary  Priest !  —  with  pale  hands  pressed 

On  thy  throbbing  brow  of  pain, 
Baffled  in  thy  life-long  quest, 

Overworn  with  toiling  vain, 
How  ill  thy  troubled  musings  fit 

The  holy  quiet  of  a  breast 

With  the  Dove  of  Peace  at  rest, 
Sweetly  brooding  over  it. 
Thoughts  are  thine  which  have  no  part 
With  the  meek  and  pure  of  heart, 
Undisturbed  by  outward  things, 
Resting  in  the  heavenly  shade, 
By  the  overspreading  wings 

Of  the  Blessed  Spirit  made. 
Thoughts  of  strife  and  hate  and  wrong 
Sweep  thy  heated  brain  along,  — 
Fading  hopes,  for  whose  success 

It  were  sin  to  breathe  a  prayer ;  — 
Schemes  which  Heaven  may  never  bless,  — 

Fears  which  darken  to  despair. 


3  6  MOGG  ME  GONE. 

Hoary  priest !  thy  dream  is  done 
Of  a  hundred  red  tribes  won 

To  the  pale  of  Holy  Church  ; 
And  the  heretic  o'erthrown, 
And  his  name  no  longer  known, 
And  thy  weary  brethren  turning, 
Joyful  from  their  years  of  mourning, 
'Twixt  the  altar  and  the  porch. 
Hark !  what  sudden  sound  is  heard 

In  the  wood  and  in  the  sky, 
Shriller  than  the  scream  of  bird,  — 

Than  the  trumpet's  clang  more  high  ! 
Every  wolf-cave  of  the  hills,  — 

Forest  arch  and  mountain  gorge, 

Rock  and  dell,  and  river  verge,  — 
With  an  answering  echo  thrills. 
Well  does  the  Jesuit  know  that  cry, 
Which  summons  the  Norridgewock  to  die, 
And  tells  that  the  foe  of  his  flock  is  nigh, 
He  listens,  and  hears  the  rangers  come, 
With  loud  hurrah,  and  jar  of  drum, 
And  hurrying  feet  (for  the  chase  is  hot), 
And  the  short,  sharp  sound  of  rifle  shot, 
And  taunt  and  menace,  —  answered  well 
By  the  Indians'  mocking  cry  and  yell,  — 
The  bark  of  dogs,  —  the  squaw's  mad  scream, 
The  dash  of  paddles  along  the  stream,  — 
The  whistle  of  shot  as  it  cuts  the  leaves 
Of  the  maples  around  the  church's  eaves,  — 
And  the  gride  of  hatchets,  fiercely  thrown, 
On  wigwam-log  and  tree  and  stone. 
Black  with  the  grime  of  paint  and  dust, 

Spotted  and  streaked  with  human  gore, 
A  grim  and  naked  head  is  thrust 


MOGG  MEGQNE.  37 

Within  the  chapel-door. 
"Ha  —  Bomazeen  !  —  in  God's  name  say, 
What  mean  these  sounds  of  bloody  fray  ?  " 
Silent,  the  Indian  points  his  hand 

To  where  across  the  echoing  glen 
Sweep  Harmon's  dreaded  ranger-band, 

And  Moulton  with  his  men. 
"  Where  are  thy  warriors,  Bomazeen  ? 
Where  are  De  Rouville18  and  Castine, 
And  where  the  braves  of  Sawga's  queen  ?  " 
"  Let  my  father  find  the  winter  snow 
Which  the  sun  drank  up  long  moons  ago  ! 
Under  the  falls  of  Tacconock, 
The  wolves  are  eating  the  Norridgewock ; 
Castine  with  his  wives  lies  closely  hid 
Like  a  fox  in  the  woods  of  Pemaquid  ! 
On  Sawga's  banks  the  man  of  war 
Sits  in  his  wigwam  like  a  squaw,  — 
Squando  has  fled,  and  Mogg  Megone, 
Struck  by  the  knife  of  Sagamore  John, 
Lies  stiff  and  stark  and  cold  as  a  stone." 

Fearfully  over  the  Jesuit's  face, 

Of  a  thousand  thoughts,  trace  after  trace, 

Like  swift  cloud-shadows,  each  other  chase, 

One  instant,  his  fingers  grasp  his  knife, 

For  a  last  vain  struggle  for  cherished  life,  — • 

The  next,  he  hurls  the  blade  away, 

And  kneels  at  his  altar's  foot  to  pray  ; 

Over  his  beads  his  fingers  stray, 

And  he  kisses  the  cross,  and  calls  aloud 

On  the  Virgin  and  her  Son  ; 
For  terrible  thoughts  his  memory  crowd 

Of  evil  seen  and  done,  — 


MOGG  MEGONE. 

Of  scalps  brought  home  by  his  savage  flock 
From  Casco  and  Sawga  and  Sagadahock, 
In  the  Church's  service  won. 

No  shrift  the  gloomy  savage  brooks, 

As  scowling  on  the  priest  he  looks  : 

"  Cowesass  —  cowesass  —  tawhich  wessaseen  ? i9 

Let  my  father  look  upon  Bomazeen,  — 

My  father's  heart  is  the  heart  of  a  squaw, 

But  mine  is  so  hard  that  it  does  not  thaw  : 

Let  my  father  ask  his  God  to  make 

A  dance  and  a  feast  for  a  great  sagamore, 
When  he  paddles  across  the  western  lake, 

With  his  dogs  and  his  squaws  to  the  spirit's  shore 
Cowesass  —  cowesass  —  tawhich  wessaseen  ? 
Let  my  father  die  like  Bomazeen  !  " 

Through  the  chapel's  narrow  doors, 

And  through  each  window  in  the  walls, 
Round  the  priest  and  warrior  pours 

The  deadly  shower  of  English  balls. 
Low  on  his  cross  the  Jesuit  falls ; 
While  at  his  side  the  Norridgewock, 
With  failing  breath,  essays  to  mock 
And  menace  yet  the  hated  foe,  — 
Shakes  his  scalp-trophies  to  and  fro 

Exultingly  before  their  eyes,  — 
Till,  cleft  and  torn  by  shot  and  blow, 

Defiant  still,  he  dies. 

"  So  fare  all  eaters  of  the  frog  f 
Death  to  the  Babylonish  dog  ! 

Down  with  the  beast  of  Rome  !  " 
With  shouts  like  these,  around  the  dead, 


MOGG  ME  GONE.  39 

Unconscious  on  his  bloody  bed, 

The  rangers  crowding  come. 
Brave  men  !  the  dead  priest  cannot  hear 
The  unfeeling  taunt,  —  the  brutal  jeer  ;  — 
Spurn  —  for  he  sees  ye  not  —  in  wrath 
The  symbol  of  your  Saviour's  death  ; 

Tear  from  his  death-grasp,  in  your  zeal, 
And  trample,  as  a  thing  accursed, 
The  cross  he  cherished  in  the  dust ; 

The  dead  man  cannot  feel ! 

Brutal  alike  in  deed  and  word, 

With  callous  heart  and  hand  of  strife, 
How  like  a  fiend  may  man  be  made, 
Plying  the  foul  and  monstrous  trade 

Whose  harvest-field  is  human  life, 
Whose  sickle  is  the  reeking  sword  ! 
Quenching,  with  reckless  hand  in  blood, 
Sparks  kindled  by  the  breath  of  God  ; 
Urging  the  deathless  soul,  unshriven, 

Of  open  guilt  or  secret  sin, 
Before  the  bar  of  that  pure  Heaven 

The  holy  only  enter  in  ! 
O,  by  the  widow's  sore  distress, 
The  orphan's  wailing  wretchedness, 
By  Virtue  struggling  in  the  accursed 
Embraces  of  polluting  Lust, 
By  the  fell  discord  of  the  Pit 
And  the  pained  souls  that  people  it, 
And  by  the  blessed  peace  which  fills 

The  Paradise  of  God  forever, 
Resting  on  all  its  holy  hills, 

And  flowing  with  its  crystal  river, — 
Let  Christian  hands  no  longer  bear 


40  MOGG  MEGONE. 

In  triumph  on  his  crimson  car 
The  foul  and  idol  god  of  war  ; 

No  more  the  purple  wreaths  prepare 

To  bind  amid  his  snaky  hair  ; 

Nor  Christian  bards  his  glories  tell, 

Nor  Christian  tongues  his  praises  swell. 

Through  the  gun-smoke  wreathing  white, 

Glimpses  on  the  soldiers'  sight 

A  thing  of  human  shape  I  ween, 

For  a  moment  only  seen, 

With  its  loose  hair  backward  streaming, 

And  its  eyeballs  madly  gleaming, 

Shrieking,  like  a  soul  in  pain, 

From  the  world  of  light  and  breath. 
Hurrying  to  its  place  again, 

Spectre-like  it  vanisheth  ! 

Wretched  girl !  one  eye  alone 
Notes  the  way  which  thou  hast  gone. 
That  great  Eye,  which  slumbers  never, 
Watching  o'er  a  lost  world  ever, 
Tracks  thee  over  vale  and  mountain. 
By  the  gushing  forest-fountain, 
Plucking  from  the  vine  its  fruit, 
Searching  for  the  ground-nut's  root, 
Peering  in  the  she-wolf's  den, 
Wading  through  the  marshy  fen, 
Where  the  sluggish  water-snake 
Basks  beside  the  sunny  brake, 
Coiling  in  his  slimy  bed, 
Smooth  and  cold  against  thy  tread,  — 
Purposeless,  thy  mazy  way 
Threading  through  the  lingering  day, 


MOGG  MEGONE.  41 

And  at  night  securely  sleeping 
Where  the  dogwood's  dews  are  weeping ! 
Still,  though  earth  and  man  discard  thee, 
Doth  thy  Heavenly  Father  guard  thee : 
He  who  spared  the  guilty  Cam, 

Even  when  a  brother's  blood, 

Crying  in  the  ear  of  God, 
Gave  the  earth  its  primal  stain,  — 
He  whose  mercy  ever  liveth, 
Who  repenting  guilt  forgiveth, 
And  the  broken  heart  receiveth,  — 
Wanderer  of  the  wilderness, 

Haunted,  guilty,  crazed,  and  wild, 
He  regardeth  thy  distress, 

And  careth  for  his  sinful  child ! 


'T  is  spring-time  on  the  eastern  hills  ! 
Like  torrents  gush  the  summer  rills  ; 
Through  winter's  moss  and  dry  dead  leaves 
The  bladed  grass  revives  and  lives, 
Pushes  the  mouldering  waste  away, 
And  glimpses  to  the  April  day. 
In  kindly  shower. and  sunshine  bud 
The  branches  of  the  dull  gray  wood  ; 
Out  from  its  sunned  and  sheltered  nooks 
The  blue  eye  of  the  violet  looks  ; 

The  southwest  wind  is  warmly  blowing, 
And  odors  from  the  springing  grass, 
The  pine-tree  and  the  sassafras, 

Are  with  it  on  its  errands  going. 

A  band  is  marching  through  the  wood 
Where  rolls  the  Kennebec  his  flood,— 


42  MOGG  MEGONE. 

The  warriors  of  the  wilderness, 
Painted,  and  in  their  battle  dress  ; 
And  with  them  one  whose  bearded  cheek, 
And  white  and  wrinkled  brow,  bespeak 

A  wanderer  from  the  shores  of  France. 
A  few  long  locks  of  scattering  snow 
Beneath  a  battered  morion  flow, 
And  from  the  rivets  of  the  vest 
Which  girds  in  steel  his  ample  breast, 

The  slanted  sunbeams  glance. 
In  the  harsh  outlines  of  his  face 
Passion  and  sin  have  left  their  trace  ; 
Yet,  save  worn  brow  and  thin  gray  hair, 
No  signs  of  weary  age  are  there. 

His  step  is  firm,  his  eye  is  keen, 
Nor  years  in  broil  and  battle  spent, 
Nor  toil,  nor  wounds,  nor  pain  have  bent 

The  lordly  frame  of  old  Castine. 

No  purpose  now  of  strife  and  blood 

Urges  the  hoary  veteran  on  : 
The  fire  of  conquest,  and  the  mood 

Of  chivalry  have  gone. 
A  mournful  task  is  his,  —  to  lay 

Within  the  earth  the  bones  of  those 
Who  perished  in  that  fearful  day, 
When  Norridgewock  became  the  prey 

Of  all  unsparing  foes. 
Sadly  and  still,  dark  thoughts  between, 
Of  coming  vengeance  mused  Castine, 
Of  the  fallen  chieftain  Bomazeen, 
Who  bade  for  him  the  Norridgevvocks 
Dig  up  their  buried  tomahawks 

For  firm  defence  or  swift  attack  ; 


MOGG  MEGONE.  43 

And  him  whose  friendship  formed  the  tie 
Which  held  the  stern  self-exile  back 

From  lapsing  into  savagery  ; 

Whose  garb  and  tone  and  kindly  glance 
Recalled  a  younger,  happier  day, 
And  prompted  memory's  fond  essay, 
To  bridge  the  mighty  waste  which  lay 
Between  his  wild  home  and  that  gray, 

Tall  chateau  of  his  native  France, 

Whose  chapel  bell,  with  far-heard  din, 

Ushered  his  birth-hour  gayly  in, 

And  counted  with  its  solemn  toll 

The  masses  for  his  father's  soul. 

Hark  !  from  the  foremost  of  the  band 

Suddenly  bursts  the  Indian  yell ; 
For  now  on  the  very  spot  they  stand 

Where  the  Norridgewocks  fighting  fell. 
No  wigwam  smoke  is  curling  there  ; 
The  very  earth  is  scorched  and  bare  : 
And  they  pause  and  listen  to  catch  a  sound 

Of  breathing  life,  — but  there  comes  not  one, 
Save  the  fox's  bark  and  the  rabbit's  bound  ; 
But  here  and  there,  on  the  blackened  ground, 

White  bones  are  glistening  in  the  sun. 
And  where  the  house  of  prayer  arose, 
And  the  holy  hymn,  at  daylight's  close, 
And  the  aged  priest  stood  up  to  bless 
The  children  of  the  wilderness, 
There  is  naught  save  ashes  sodden  and  dank  ; 

And  the  birchen  boats  of  the  Norridgewock, 

Tethered  to  tree  and  stump  and  rock, 
Rotting  along  the  river  bank  ! 


44  MOGG  MEGONE. 

Blessed  Mary  !  who  is  she 

Leaning  against  that  maple-tree  ? 

The  sun  upon  her  face  burns  hot, 

But  the  fixed  eyelid  moveth  not ; 

The  squirrel's  chirp  is  shrill  and  clear 

From  the  dry  bough  above  her  ear  ; 

Dashing  from  rock  and  root  its  spray, 
Close  at  her  feet  the  river  rushes  ; 
The  blackbird's  wing  against  her  brushes, 
And  sweetly  through  the  hazel-bushes 
The  robin's  mellow  music  gushes  ;  — 

God  save  her  !  will  she  sleep  alway  ? 

Castine  hath  bent  him  over  the  sleeper : 

"  Wake,  daughter,  —  wake  !"  —  but  she  stirs  no  limb 
The  eye  that  looks  on  him  is  fixed  and  dim  ; 

And  the  sleep  she  is  sleeping  shall  be  no  deeper, 
Until  the  angel's  oath  is  said, 

And  the  final  blast  of  the  trump  goes  forth 

To  the  graves  of  the  sea  and  the  graves  of  earth. 

RUTH  BONYTHON  IS  DEAD  ! 


THE   BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK 
1848. 


THE   BRIDAL   OF   PENNACOOK.20 

WE  had  been  wandering  for  many  days 
Through  the  rough  northern  country.      We  had 

seen 

The  sunset,  with  its  bars  of  purple  cloud, 
Like  a  new  heaven,  shine  upward  from  the  lake 
Of  Winnepiseogee  ;  and  had  felt 
The  sunrise  breezes,  midst  the  leafy  isler. 
Which  stoop  their  summer  beauty  to  the  lips 
Of  the  bright  waters.     We  had  checked  our  steeds, 
Silent  with  wonder,  where  the  mountain  wall 
Is  piled  to  heaven  ;  and,  through  the  narrow  rift 
Of  the  vast  rocks,  against  whose  rugged  feet 
Beats  the  mad- torrent  with  perpetual  roar, 
Where  noonday  is  as  twilight,  and  the  wind 
Comes  burdened  with  the  everlasting  moan 
Of  forests  and  of  far-off  waterfalls, 
We  had  looked  upward  where  the  summer  sky, 
Tasselled  with  clouds  light-woven  by  the  sun, 
Sprung  its  blue  arch  above  the  abutting  crags 
O'er-roofing  the  vast  portal  of  the  land 
Beyond  the  wall  of  mountains.     We  had  passed 
The  high  source  of  the  Saco ;  and  bewildered 
In  the  dwarf  spruce-belts  of  the  Crystal  Hills, 


48  THE  BRIDAL    OF  PENNACOOK. 

Had  heard  above  us,  like  a  voice  in  the  cloud, 

The  horn  of  Fabyan  sounding;  and  atop 

Of  old  Agioochook  had  seen  the  mountains 

Piled  to  the  northward,  shagged  with  wood,  and  thick 

As  meadow  mole-hills,  —  the  far  sea  of  Casco, 

A  white  gleam  on  the  horizon  of  the  east ; 

Fair  lakes,  embosomed  in  the  woods  and  hills ; 

Moosehillock's  mountain  range,  and  Kearsarge 

Lifting  his  rocky  forehead  to  the  sun! 

And  we  had  rested  underneath  the  oaks 

Shadowing  the  bank,  whose  grassy  spires  are  shaken 

By  the  perpetual  beating  of  the  falls 

Of  the  wild  Ammonoosuc.     We  had  tracked 

The  winding  Pemigewasset,  overhung 

By  beechen  shadows,  whitening  down  its  rocks, 

Or  lazily  gliding  through  its  intervals, 

From  waving  rye-fields  sending  up  the  gleam 

Of  sunlit  waters.     We  had  seen  the  moon 

Rising  behind  Umbagog's  eastern  pines, 

Like  a  great  Indian  camp-fire  ;  and  its  beams 

At  midnight  spanning  with  a  bridge  of  silver 

The  Merrimack  by  Uncanoonuc's  falls. 

There  were  five  souls  of  us  whom  travel's  chance 

Had  thrown  together  in  these  wild  north  hills :  — 

A  city  lawyer,  for  a  month  escaping 

From  his  dull  office,  where  the  weary  eye 

Saw  only  hot  brick  walls  and  close  thronged  streets,  — 

Briefless  as  yet,  but  with  an  eye  to  see 

Life's  sunniest  side,  and  with  a  heart  to  take 

Its  chances  all  as  godsends  ;  and  his  brother, 

Pale  from  long  pulpit  studies,  yet  retaining 

The  warmth  and  freshness  of  a  genial  heart, 


THE   BRIDAL    OF  PENNACOOK.  49 

Whose  mirror  of  the  beautiful  and  true, 

In  Man  and  Nature,  was  as  yet  undimmed 

By  dust  of  theologic  strife,  or  breath 

Of  sect,  or  cobwebs  of  scholastic  lore ; 

Like  a  clear  crystal  calm  of  water,  taking 

The  hue  and  image  of  o'erleaning  flowers, 

Sweet  human  faces,  white  clouds  of  the  noon, 

Slant  starlight  glimpses  through  the  dewy  leaves, 

And  tenderest  moonrise.     'T  was,  in  truth,  a  study, 

To  mark  his  spirit,  alternating  between 

A  decent  and  professional  gravity 

And  an  irreverent  mirthfulness,  which  often 

Laughed  in  the  face  of  his  divinity, 

Plucked  off  the  sacred  ephod,  quite  unshrined 

The  oracle,  and  for  the  pattern  priest 

Left  us  the  man.     A  shrewd,  sagacious  merchant, 

To  whom  the  soiled  sheet  found  in  Crawford's  inn, 

Giving  the  latest  news  of  city  stocks 

And  sales  of  cotton,  had  a  deeper  meaning 

Than  the  great  presence  of  the  awful  mountains 

Glorified  by  the  sunset ;  —  and  his  daughter, 

A  delicate  flower  on  whom  had  blown  too  long 

Those  evil  winds,  which,  sweeping  from  the  ice 

And  winnowing  the  fogs  of  Labrador, 

Shed  their  cold  blight  round  Massachusetts  Bay, 

With  the  same  breath  which  stirs  Spring's  opening 

leaves 

And  lifts  her  half-formed  flower-bell  on  its  stem, 
Poisoning  our  seaside  atmosphere. 

It  chanced 

That  as  we  turned  upon  our  homeward  way, 
A  drear  northeastern  storm  came  howling  up 
The  valley  of  the  Saco  ;  and  that  girl 
Who  had  stood  with  us  upon  Mount  Washington, 


5o  THE  BRIDAL   OF  PENNACOOK. 

Her  brown  locks  ruffled  by  the  wind  which  whirled 

In  gusts  around  its  sharp  cold  pinnacle, 

Who  had  joined  our  gay  trout-fishing  in  the  streams 

Which  lave  that  giant's  feet ;  whose  laugh  was  heard 

Like  a  bird's  carol  on  the  sunrise  breeze 

Which  swelled  our  sail  amidst  the  lake's  green  islands, 

Shrank  from  its  harsh,  chill  breath,  and  visibly  drooped 

Like  a  flower  in  the  frost.     So,  in  that  quiet  inn 

Which  looks  from  Conway  on  the  mountains  piled 

Heavily  against  the  horizon  of  the  north, 

Like  summer  thunder-clouds,  we  made  our  home : 

And  while  the  mist  hung  over  dripping  hills, 

And  the  cold  wind-driven  rain-drops  all  day  long 

Beat  their  sad  music  upon  roof  and  pane, 

We  strove  to  cheer  our  gentle  invalid. 

The  lawyer  in  the  pauses  of  the  storm 

Went  angling  down  the  Saco,  and,  returning, 

Recounted  his  adventures  and  mishaps  ; 

Gave  us  the  history  of  his  scaly  clients, 

Mingling  with  ludicrous  yet  apt  citations 

Of  barbarous  law  Latin,  passages 

From  Izaak  Walton's  Angler,  sweet  and  fresh 

As  the  flower-skirted  streams  of  Staffordshire, 

Where,  under  aged  trees,  the  southwest  wind 

Of  soft  June  mornings  fanned  the  thin,  white  hair 

Of  the  sage  fisher.     And,  if  truth  be  told, 

Our  youthful  candidate  forsook  his  sermons, 

His  commentaries,  articles  and  creeds, 

For  the  fair  page  of  human  loveliness,  — 

The  missal  of  young  hearts,  whose  sacred  text 

Is  music,  its  illumining  sweet  smiles. 

He  sang  the  songs  she  loved  ;  and  in  his  low, 

Deep,  earnest  voice,  recited  many  a  page 


THE  BRIDAL    OF  PENNACOOK.  ^ 

Of  poetry,  —  the  holiest,  tenderest  lines 

Of  the  sad  bard  of  Olney,  —  the  sweet  songs, 

Simple  and  beautiful  as  Truth  and  Nature, 

Of  him  whose  whitened  locks  on  Rydal  Mount 

Are  lifted  yet  by  morning  breezes  blowing 

From  the  green  hills,  immortal  in  his  lays. 

And  for  myself,  obedient  to  her  wish, 

I  searched  our  landlord's  proffered  library,  — 

A  well-thumbed  Bunyan,  with  its  nice  wood  pictures 

Of  scaly  fiends  and  angels  not  unlike  them,  — 

Watts'  unmelodious  psalms,  —  Astrology's 

Last  home,  a  musty  pile  of  almanacs, 

And  an  old  chronicle  of  border  wars 

And  Indian  history.     And,  as  I  read 

A  story  of  the  marriage  of  the  Chief 

Of  Saugus  to  the  dusky  Weetamoo, 

Daughter  of  Passaconaway,  who  dwelt 

In  the  old  time  upon  the  Merrimack, 

Our  fair  one,  in  the  playful  exercise 

Of  her  prerogative,  —  the  right  divine 

Of  youth  and  beauty,  —  bade  us  versify 

The  legend,  and  with  ready  pencil  sketched 

Its  plan  and  outlines,  laughingly  assigning 

To  each  his  part,  and  barring  our  excuses 

With  absolute  will.     So,  like  the  cavaliers 

Whose  voices  still  are  heard  in  the  Romance 

Of  silver-tongued  Boccaccio,  on  the  banks 

Of  Arno,  with  soft  tales  of  love  beguiling 

The  ear  of  languid  beauty,  plague-exiled 

From  stately  Florence,  we  rehearsed  our  rhymes 

To  their  fair  auditor,  and  shared  by  turns 

Her  kind  approval  and  her  playful  censure. 

It  may  be  that  these  fragments  owe  alone 

To  the  fair  setting  of  their  circumstances,  — 


52 


THE  BRIDAL    OF  PENNACOOK. 


The  associations  of  time,  scene,  and  audience,  — 
Their  place  amid  the  pictures  which  fill  up 
The  chambers  of  my  memory.     Yet  I  trust 
That  some,  who  sigh,  while  wandering  in  thought, 
Pilgrims  of  Romance  o'er  the  olden  world, 
That  our  broad  land,  —  our  sea-like  lakes,  and  mountains 
Piled  to  the  clouds,  —  our  rivers  overhung 
By  forests  which  have  known  no  other  change 
For  ages,  than  the  budding  and  the  fall 
Of  leaves,  —  our  valleys  lovelier  than  those 
Which  the  old  poets  sang  of,  —  should  but  figure 
On  the  apocryphal  chart  of  speculation 
As  pastures,  wood-lots,  mill-sites,  with  the  privileges, 
Rights,  and  appurtenances,  which  make  up 
A  Yankee  Paradise,  —  unsung,  unknown, 
To  beautiful  tradition  ;  even  their  names, 
Whose  melody  yet  lingers  like  the  last 
Vibration  of  the  red-man's  requiem, 
Exchanged  for  syllables  significant 
Of  cotton-mill  and  rail-car,  will  look  kindly 
Upon  this  effort  to  call  up  the  ghost 
Of  our  dim  Past,  and  listen  with  pleased  ear 
To  the  responses  of  the  questioned  Shade. 
• 

I.    THE   MERRIMACK. 

O  CHILD  of  that  white-crested  mountain  whose  springs 
Gush  forth  in  the  shade  of  the  cliff-eagle's  wings, 
Down  whose  slopes  to  the  lowlands  thy  wild  waters 

shine, 
Leaping  gray  walls  of  rock,  flashing  through  the  dwarf 

pine. 


7 HE  MERRIMACK.  53 

From  that  cloud-curtained  cradle  so  cold  and  so  lone, 
From  the  arms  of  that  wintry-locked  mother  of  stone, 
By  hills  hung  with  forests,  through  vales  wide  and  free, 
Thy  mountain-born  brightness  glanced  down  to  the  sea ! 

No  bridge  arched  thy  waters  save  that  where  the  trees 
Stretched  their  long  arms  above  thee  and  kissed  in  the 

breeze  : 

No  sound  save  the  lapse  of  the  waves  on  thy  shores, 
The  plunging  of  otters,  the  light  dip  of  oars. 

Green-tufted,  oak-shaded,  by  Amoskeag's  fall 
Thy  twin  Uncanoonucs  rose  stately  and  tall, 
Thy  Nashua  meadows  lay  green  and  unshorn, 
And  the  hills  of  Pentucket  were  tasselled  with  corn. 

But  thy  Pennacook  valley  was  fairer  than  these, 
And  greener  its  grasses  and  taller  its  trees, 
Ere  the  sound  of  an  axe  in  the  forest  had  rung, 
Or  the  mower  his  scythe  in  the  meadows  had  swung. 

In  their  sheltered  repose,  looking  out  from  the  wood, 
The  bark-builded  wigwams  of  Pennacook  stood  ; 
There  glided  the  corn-dance,  the  council-fire  shone, 
And  against  the  red  war-post  the  hatchet  was  thrown. 

There  the  old  smoked  in  silence  their  pipes,  and  the  young 
To  the  pike  and  the  white-perch  their  baited  lines  flung  ; 
There  the  boy  shaped  his  arrows,  and  there  the  shy  maid 
Wove  her  many-hued  baskets  and  bright  wampum  braid. 

O  Stream  of  the  Mountain !  if  answer  of  thine 
Could  rise  from  thy  waters  to  question  of  mine, 
Methinks  through  the  din  of  thy  thronged  banks  a  moan 
Of  sorrow  would  swell  for  the  days  which  have  gone. 


54 


THE  BRIDAL   OF  PENNACOOK. 


Not  for  thee  the  dull  jar  of  the  loom  and  the  wheel, 
The  gliding  of  shuttles,  the  ringing  of  steel  ; 
But  that  old  voice  of  waters,  of  bird  and  of  breeze, 
The  dip  of  the  wild-fowl,  the  rustling  of  trees  ! 


II.    THE    BASHABA.21 

LIFT  we  the  twilight  curtains  of  the  Past, 
And,  turning  from  familiar  sight  and  sound, 

Sadly  and  full  of  reverence  let  us  cast 

A  glance  upon  Tradition's  shadowy  ground, 

Led  by  the  few  pale  lights  which,  glimmering  round 

That  dim,  strange  land  of  Eld,  seem  dying  fast ; 

And  that  which  history  gives  not  to  the  eye, 

The  faded  coloring  of  Time's  tapestry, 

Let  Fancy,  with  her  dream-dipped  brush  supply. 

Roof  of  bark  and  walls  of  pine, 

Through  whose  chinks  the  sunbeams  shine, 

Tracing  many  a  golden  line 

On  the  ample  floor  within  ; 
Where  upon  that  earth-floor  stark, 
Lay  the  gaudy  mats  of  bark, 
With  the  bear's  hide,  rough  and  dark, 

And  the  red-deer's  skin. 

Window-tracery,  small  and  slight, 
Woven  of  the  willow  white, 
Lent  a  dimly  checkered  light, 

And  the  night-stars  glimmered  down. 
Where  the  lodge-fire's  heavy  smoke, 
Slowly  through  an  opening  broke, 
In  the  low  roof,  ribbed  with  oak, 

Sheathed  with  hemlock  brown. 


THE  BASHABA,  55 

Gloomed  behind  the  changeless  shade, 
By  the  solemn  pine-wood  made  ; 
Through  the  rugged  palisade, 

In  the  open  foreground  planted, 
Glimpses  came  of  rowers  rowing, 
Stir  of  leaves  and  wild-flowers  blowing, 
Steel-like  gleams  of  water  flowing, 

In  the  sunlight  slanted. 

Here  the  mighty  Bashaba, 

Held  his  long-unquestioned  sway, 

From  the  White  Hills,  far  away, 

To  the  great  sea's  sounding  shore  ; 
Chief  of  chiefs,  his  regal  word 
All  the  river  Sachems  heard, 
At  his  call  the  war-dance  stirred, 

Or  was  still  once  more. 

There  his  spoils  of  chase  and  war, 
Jaw  of  wolf  and  black  bear's  paw, 
Panther's  skin  and  eagle's  claw, 

Lay  beside  his  axe  and  bow  ; 
And,  adown  the  roof-pole  hung, 
Loosely  on  a  snake-skin  strung, 
In  the  smoke  his  scalp-locks  swung 

Grimly  to  and  fro. 

Nightly  down  the  river  going, 
Swifter  was  the  hunter's  rowing, 
When  he  saw  that  lodge-fire  glowing 

O'er  the  waters  still  and  red  ; 
And  the  squaw's  dark  eye  burned  brighter 
And  she  drew  her  blanket  tighter, 
As,  with  quicker  step  and  lighter, 

From  that  door  she  fled. 


THE  BRIDAL   OF  PENNACOOK. 

For  that  chief  had  magic  skill, 
And  a  Panisee's  dark  will, 
Over  powers  of  good  and  ill, 

Powers  which  bless  and  powers  which  ban,  — 
Wizard  lord  of  Pennacook, 
Chiefs  upon  their  war-path  shook, 
When  they  met  the  steady  look 

Of  that  wise  dark  man. 

Tales  of  him  the  gray  squaw  told, 
When  the  winter  night-wind  cold, 
Pierced  her  blanket's  thickest  fold, 

And  the  fire  burned  low  and  small, 
Till  the  very  child  abed, 
Drew  its  bear-skin  over  head, 
Shrinking  from  the  pale  lights  shed 

On  the  trembling  wall. 

All  the  subtle  spirits  hiding 
Under  earth  or  wave,  abiding 
In  the  caverned  rock,  or  riding 

Misty  clouds  or  morning  breeze; 
Every  dark  intelligence, 
Secret  soul,  and  influence 
Of  all  things  which  outward  sense 

Feels,  or  hears,  or  sees, — 

These  the  wizard's  skill  confessed, 
At  his  bidding  banned  or  blessed, 
Stormful  woke  or  lulled  to  resl- 

Wind  and  cloud,  and  fire  ard  flood  ; 
Burned  for  him  the  drifted  sm.w. 
Bade  through  ice  fresh  lilies  blow, 
And  the  leaves  of  summer  grow 

Over  winter's  wood  ! 


THE  BASHABA. 

Not  untrue  that  tale  of  old  ! 
Now,  as  then,  the  wise  and  bold 
All  the  powers  of  Nature  hold 

Subject  to  their  kingly  will ; 
From  the  wondering  crowds  ashore, 
Treading  life's  wild  waters  o'er, 
As  upon  a  marble  floor, 

Moves  the  strong  man  still. 

Still,  to  such,  life's  elements 
With  their  sterner  laws  dispense, 
And  the  chain  of  consequence 

Broken  in  their  pathway  lies  ; 
Time  and  change  their  vassals  making; 
Flowers  from  icy  pillows  waking, 
Tresses  of  the  sunrise  shaking 

Over  midnight  skies. 

Still,  to  earnest  souls,  the  sun 
Rests  on  towered  Gibeon, 
And  the  moon  of  Ajalon 

Lights  the  battle-grounds  of  life ; 
To  his  aid  the  strong  reverses 
Hidden  powers  and  giant  forces, 
And  the  high  stars,  in  their  courses, 

Mingle  in  his  strife  ! 


III.     THE    DAUGHTER. 

THE  soot-black  brows  of  men,  —  the  yell 
Of  women  thronging  round  the  bed,  — 

The  tinkling  charm  of  ring  and  shell, — 
The  Powah  whispering  o'er  the  dead  1  - 


5 8  THE  BRIDAL    OF  PENNACOOK. 

All  these  the  Sachem's  home  had  known, 

When,  on  her  journey  long  and  wild 
To  the  dim  World  of  Souls,  alone, 
In  her  young  beauty  passed  the  mother  of  his  child. 

Three  bow-shots  from  the  Sachem's  dwelling 
They  laid  her  in  the  walnut  shade, 

Where  a  green  hillock  gently  swelling 
Her  fitting  mound  of  burial  made. 

There  trailed  the  vine  in  summer  hours, 

The  tree-perched  squirrel  dropped  his  shell, — 

On  velvet  moss  and  pale-hued  flowers, 
Woven  with  leaf  and  spray,  the  softened  sunshine  fell ! 

The  Indian's  heart  is  hard  and  cold,  — 

It  closes  darkly  o'er  its  care, 
And,  formed  in  Nature's  sternest  mould, 

Is  slow  to  feel,  and  strong  to  bear. 
The  war-paint  on  the  Sachem's  face, 

Unwet  with  tears,  shone  fierce  and  red, 
And,  still  in  battle  or  in  chase, 

Dry  leaf  and  snow-rime  crisped  beneath  his  foremost 
tread. 

Yet  when  hev  -aame  was  heard  no  more, 
And  when  the  robe  her  mother  gave, 

And  small,  light  moccasin  she  wore, 
Had  slowly  wasted  on  her  grave, 

Unmarked  of  him  the  dark  maids  sped 
Their  sunset  dance  and  moonlit  play  ; 

No  other  shared  his  lonely  bed, 
No  other  fair  young  head  upon  his  bosom  lay. 

A  lone,  stern  man.     Yet,  as  sometimes 
The  tempest-smitten  tree  receives 


THE  DAUGHTER. 


59 


From  one  small  root  the  sap  which  climbs 
Its  topmost  spray  and  crowning  leaves, 

So  from  his  child  the  Sachem  drew 
A  life  of  Love  and  Hope,  and  felt 

His  cold  and  rugged  nature  through 
The  softness  and  the  warmth  of  her  young  being  melt 

A  laugh  which  in  the  woodland  rang 

Bemocking  April's  gladdest  bird,  — 
A  light  and  graceful  form  which  sprang 

To  meet  him  when  his  step  was  heard,  — 
Eyes  by  his  lodge-fire  flashing  dark, 

Small  fingers  stringing  bead  and  shell 
Or  weaving  mats  of  bright-hued  bark,  — 
With  these  the  household-god22  had  graced  his  wigwam 
well. 

Child  of  the  forest !  —  strong  and  free, 
Slight-robed,  with  loosely-flowing  hair, 

She  swam  the  lake  or  climbed  the  tree, 
Or  struck  the  flying  bird  in  air. 

O'er  the  heaped  drifts  of  winter's  moon 
Her  snow-shoes  tracked  the  hunter's  way; 

And  dazzling  in  the  summer  noon 
The  blade  of  her  light  oar  threw  off  its  shower  of  spray  ! 

Unknown  to  her  the  rigid  rule, 

The  dull  restraint,  the  chiding  frown, 
The  weary  torture  of  the  school, 

The  taming  of  wild  nature  down. 
Her  only  lore,  the  legends  told, 

Around  the  hunter's  fire  at  night ; 
Stars  rose  and  set,  and  seasons  rolled, 
Flowers  bloomed  and  snow-flakes  fell,  unquestioned  in 
her  sight. 


60  THE  BRIDAL    OF  PENNACOOK 

Unknown  to  her  the  subtle  skill 
With  which  the  artist-eye  can  trace 

In  rock  and  tree  and  lake  and  hill 
The  outlines  of  divinest  grace  ; 

Unknown  the  fine  soul's  keen  unrest, 
Which  sees,  admires,  yet  yearns  alway  ; 

Too  closely  on  her  mother's  breast 
To  note  her  smiles  of  love  the  child  of  Nature  lay! 

It  is  enough  for  such  to  be 

Of  common,  natural  things  a  part, 
To  feel,  with  bird  and  stream  and  tree, 
The  pulses  of  the  same  great  heart ; 
But  we,  from  Nature  long  exiled 

In  our  cold  homes  of  Art  and  Thought, 
Grieve  like  the  stranger-tended  child, 
Which  seeks  its  mother's  arms,  and  sees  but  feels  them 
not. 

The  garden  rose  may  richly  bloom 

In  cultured  soil  and  genial  air, 
To  cloud  the  light  of  Fashion's  room 

Or  droop  in  Beauty's  midnight  hair, 
In  lonelier  grace,  to  sun  and  dew 

The  sweetbrier  on  the  hillside  shows 
Its  single  leaf  and  fainter  hue, 
Untrained  and  wildly  free,  yet  still  a  sister  rose ! 

Thus  o'er  the  heart  of  Weetamoo 
Their  mingling  shades  of  joy  and  ill 

The  instincts  of  her  nature  threw,  — 
The  savage  was  a  woman  still. 

Midst  outlines  dim  of  maiden  schemes, 
Heart-colored  prophecies  of  life, 

Rose  on  the  ground  of  her  young  dreams 
The  light  of  a  new  home,  —  the  lover  and  the  wife. 


THE    WEDDING.  6 1 


IV.    THE   WEDDING. 

COOL  and  dark  fell  the  autumn  night, 
But  the  Bashaba's  wigwam  glowed  with  light, 
For  down  from  its  roof  by  green  withes  hung 
Flaring  and  smoking  the  pine-knots  swung. 

And  along  the  river  great  wood-fires 
Shot  into  the  night  their  long  red  spires, 
Showing  behind  the  tall,  dark  wood 
Flashing  before  on  the  sweeping  flood. 

In  the  changeful  wind,  with  shimmer  and  shade, 
Now  high,  now  low,  that  firelight  played, 
On  tree-leaves  wet  with  evening  dews, 
On  gliding  water  and  still  canoes. 

The  trapper  that  night  on  Turee's  brook, 
And  the  weary  fisher  on  Contoocook. 
Saw  over  the  marshes  and  through  the  pine, 
And  down  on  the  river  the  dance-lights  shine. 

For  the  Saugus  Sachem  had  come  to  woo 
The  Bashaba's  daughter  Weetamoo, 
And  laid  at  her  father's  feet  that  night 
His  softest  furs  and  wampum  white. 

From  the  Crystal  Hills  to  the  far  southeast 
The  river  Sagamores  came  to  the  feast ; 
And  chiefs  whose  homes  the  sea-winds  shook, 
Sat  down  on  the  mats  of  Pennacook. 


62  THE  BRIDAL   OF  PENNACOOK. 

They  came  from  Sunapee's  shore  of  rock, 
From  the  snowy  sources  of  Snooganock, 
And  from  rough  Coos  whose  thick  woods  shake 
Their  pine-cones  in  Umbagog  Lake. 

From  Ammonoosuc's  mountain  pass, 
Wild  as  his  home,  came  Chepewass  ; 
And  the  Keenomps  of  the  hills  which  throw 
Their  shade  on  the  Smile  of  Manito. 

With  pipes  of  peace  and  bows  unstrung, 
Glowing  with  paint  came  old  and  young, 
In  wampum  and  furs  and  feather  arrayed 
To  the  dance  and  feast  the  Bashaba  made. 

Bird  of  the  air  and  beast  of  the  field, 
All  which  the  woods  and  waters  yield, 
On  dishes  of  birch  and  hemlock  piled, 
Garnished  and  graced  that  banquet  wild. 

Steaks  of  the  brown  bear  fat  and  large 
From  the  rocky  slopes  of  the  Kearsarge  ; 
Delicate  trout  from  Babboosuck  brook, 
And  salmon  speared  in  the  Contoocook  ; 

Squirrels  which  fed  where  nuts  fell  thick 
In  the  gravelly  bed  of  the  Otternic, 
And  small  wild-hens  in  reed-snares  caught 
From  the  banks  of  Sondagardee  brought ; 

Pike  and  perch  from  the  Suncook  taken, 
Nuts  from  the  trees  of  the  Black  Hills  shaken, 
Cranberries  picked  in  the  Squamscot  bog, 
And  grapes  from  the  vines  of  Piscataquog ; 


THE   WEDDING.  63 

And,  drawn  from  that  great  stone  vase  which  stands 
In  the  river  scooped  by  a  spirit's  hands,23 
Garnished  with  spoons  of  shell  and  horn, 
Stood  the  birchen  dishes  of  smoking  corn. 

Thus  bird  of  the  air  and  beast  of  the  field, 
All  which  the  woools  and  the  waters  yield, 
Furnished  in  that  olden  day 
The  bridal  feast  of  the  Bashaba. 

And  merrily  when  that  feast  was  done 
On  the  fire-lit  green  the  dance  begun, 
With  squaws'  shrill  stave,  and  deeper  hum 
Of  old  men  beating  the  Indian  drum. 

Painted  and  plumed,  with  scalp-locks  flowing, 
And  red  arms  tossing  and  black  eyes  glowing, 
Now  in  the  light,  and  now  in  the  shade 
Around  the  fires  the  dancers  played. 

The  step  was  quicker,  the  song  more  shrill, 
And  the  beat  of  the  small  drums  louder  still 
Whenever  within  the  circle  drew 
The  Saugus  Sachem  and  WTeetamoo. 

The  moons  of  forty  winters  had  shed 
Their  snow  upon  that  chieftain's  head, 
And  toil  and  care,  and  battle's  chance 
Had  seamed  his  hard,  dark  countenance. 

• 

A  fawn  beside  the  bison  grim,  — 
Why  turns  the  bride's  fond  eye  on  him, 
In  whose  cold  look  is  naught  beside 
The  triumph  of  a  sullen  pride  ? 


4 


64  THE  BRIDAL    OF  PENNACOOK. 

Ask  why  the  graceful  grape  entwines 
The  rough  oak  with  her  arm  of  vines  ; 
And  why  the  gray  rock's  rugged  cheek 
The  soft  lips  of  the  mosses  seek  : 

Why,  with  wise  instinct,  Nature  seems 
To  harmonize  her  wide  extremes, 
Linking  the  stronger  with  the  weak, 
The  haughty  with  the  soft  and  meek  ! 


V.     THE    NEW    HOME. 

A  WILD  and  broken  landscape,  spiked  with  firs, 
Roughening  the  bleak  horizon's  northern  edge, 

Steep,  cavernous  hillsides,  where  black  hemlock  spurs 
And  sharp,  gray  splinters  of  the  wind-swept  ledge 

Pierced  the  thin-glazed  ice,  or  bristling  rose, 

Where  the  cold  rim  of  the  sky  sunk  down  upon  the 
snows. 

And  eastward  cold,  wide  marshes  stretched  away, 
Dull,  dreary  flats  without  a  bush  or  tree, 

O'er-crossed  by  icy  creeks,  where  twice  a  day 
Gurgled  the  waters  of  the  moon- struck  sea ; 

And  faint  with  distance  came  the  stifled  roar, 

The  melancholy  lapse  of  waves  on  that  low  shore. 

No  cheerful  village  with  its  mingling  smokes, 
No  laugh  of  children  wrestling  in  the  snow, 

No  camp-fire  blazing  through  the  hillside  oaks, 
No  fishers  kneeling  on  the  ice  below  ; 

Yet  midst  all  desolate  things  of  sound  and  view, 

Through    the    long   winter    moons   smiled    dark-eyed 
Weetamoo. 


THE  NEW  HOME.  65 

Her  heart  had  found  a  home  ;  and  freshly  all 

Its  beautiful  affections  overgrew 
Their  rugged  prop.     As  o'er  some  granite  wall 

Soft  vine-leaves  open  to  the  moistening  dew 
And  warm  bright  sun,  the  love  of  that  young  wife 
Found  on  a  hard  cold  breast  the  dew  and  w'armth  of  life. 

The  steep  bleak  hills,  the  melancholy  shore, 
The  long  dead  level  of  the  marsh  between, 

A  coloring  of  unreal  beauty  wore 

Through  the  soft  golden  mist  of  young  love  seen. 

For  o'er  those  hills  and  from  that  dreary  plain. 

Nightly  she  welcomed  home  her  hunter  chief  again. 

No  warmth  of  heart,  no  passionate  burst  of  feeling 
Repaid  her  welcoming  smile  and  parting  kiss, 

No  fond  and  playful  dalliance  half  concealing, 
Under  the  guise  of  mirth,  its  tenderness  ; 

But,  in  their  stead,  the  warrior's  settled  pride, 

And  vanity's  pleased  smile  with  homage  satisfied. 

Enough  for  Weetamoo,  that  she  alone 
Sat  on  his  mat  and  slumbered  at  his  side  ; 

That  he  whose  fame  to  her  young  ear  had  flown 
Now  looked  upon  her  proudly  as  his  bride  ; 

That  he  whose  name  the  Mohawk  trembling  heard 

Vouchsafed  to  her  at  times  a  kindly  look  or  word. 

For  she  had  learned  the  maxims  of  her  race, 
Which  teach  the  woman  to  become  a  slave 

And  feel  herself  the  pardonless  disgrace 

Of  love's  fond  weakness  in  the  wise  and  brave,  — 

The  scandal  and  the  shame  which  they  incur, 

Who  give  to  woman  all  which  man  requires  of  her. 


06  THE  BRIDAL   OF  PENNACOOK. 

So  passed  the  winter  moons.     The  sun  at  last 
Broke  link  by  link  the  frost  chain  of  the  rills. 

And  the  warm  breathings  of  the  southwest  passed 
Over  the  hoar  rime  of  the  Saugus  hills, 

The  gray  and  desolate  marsh  grew  green  once. more, 

And  the  birch-tree's  tremulous  shade  fell  round  the 
Sachem's  door. 

Then  from  far  Pennacook  swift  runners  came, 
With  gift  and  greeting  for  the  Saugus  chief; 

Beseeching  him  in  the  great  Sachem's  name, 
That,  with  the  coming  of  the  flower  and  leaf, 

The  song  of  birds,  the  warm  breeze  and  the  rain, 

Young  Weetamoo  might  greet  her  lonely  sire  again. 

And  Winnepurkit  called  his  chiefs  together, 
And  a  grave  council  in  his  wigwam  met, 

Solemn  and  brief  in  words,  considering  whether 
The  rigid  rules  of  forest  etiquette 

Permitted  Weetamoo  once  more  to  look 

Upon  her  father's  face  and  green-banked  PennacooL 

With  interludes  of  pipe-smoke  and  strong  water, 
The  forest  sages  pondered,  and  at  length, 

Concluded  in  a  body  to  escort  her 

Up  to  her  father's  home  of  pride  and  strength, 

Impressing  thus  on  Pennacook  a  sense 

Of  Winnepurkit's  power  and  regal  consequence. 

So  through  old  woods  which  Aukeetamit's  24  hand 
A  soft  and  many-shaded  greenness  lent, 

Over  high  breezy  hills,  and  meadow  land 
Yellow  with  flowers,  the  wild  procession  went, 


AT  PENNACOOK.  67 

Till,  rolling  down  its  wooded  banks  between, 
A  broad,  clear  mountain  stream,  the  Merrimack  was 
seen. 

The  hunter  leaning  on  his  bow  undrawn, 
The  fisher  lounging  on  the  pebbled  shores, 

Squaws  in  the  clearing  dropping  the  seed-corn, 

Young  children  peering  through  the  wigwam  doors, 

Saw  with  delight,  surrounded  by  her  train 

Of  painted  Saugus  braves,  their  Weetamoo  again. 


VI.     AT    PENNACOOK. 

THE  hills  are  dearest  which  our  childish  feet 
Have  climbed  the  earliest ;  and  the  streams  most  sweet 
Are  ever  those  at  which  our  young  lips  drank, 
Stooped  to  their  waters  o'er  the  grassy  bank  : 

Midst  the  cold  dreary  sea-watch,  Home's  hearth-light 
Shines  round  the  helmsman  plunging  through  the  night  ; 
And  still,  with  inward  eye,  the  traveller  sees 
In  close,  dark,  stranger  streets  his  native  trees. 

The  home-sick  dreamer's  brow  is  nightly  fanned 
By  breezes  whispering  of  his  native  land, 
And  on  the  stranger's  dim  and  dying  eye 
The  soft,  sweet  pictures  of  his  childhood  lie. 

Joy  then  for  Weetamoo,  to  sit  once  more 
A  child  upon  her  father's  wigwam  floor  ! 
Once  more  with  her  old  fondness  to  beguile 
From  his  cold  eye  the  strange  light  of  a  smile, 


68  THE  BRIDAL    OF  PENNACOOK. 

The  long  bright  days  of  summer  swiftly  passed, 
The  dry  leaves  whirled  in  autumn's  rising  blast, 
And  evening  cloud  and  whitening  sunrise  rime 
Told  of  the  coming  of  the  winter-time. 

But  vainly  looked,  the  while,  young  Weetamoo, 
Down  the  dark  river  for  her  chief's  canoe  ; 
No  dusky  messenger  from  Saugus  brought 
The  grateful  tidings  which  the  young  wife  sought 

At  length  a  runner  from  her  father  sent, 
To  Winnepurkit's  sea-cooled  wigwam  went : 
"  Eagle  of  Saugus,  —  in  the  woods  the  dove 
Mourns  for  the  shelter  of  thy  wings  of  love." 

But  the  dark  chief  of  Saugus  turned  aside 
In  the  grim  anger  of  hard-hearted  pride  ; 
"  I  bore  her  as  became  a  chieftain's  daughter, 
Up  to  her  home  beside  the  gliding  water. 

"  If  now  no  more  a  mat  for  her  is  found 
Of  all  which  line  her  father's  wigwam  round. 
Let  Pennacook  call  out  his  warrior  train, 
And  send  her  back  with  wampum  gifts  again." 

The  baffled  runner  turned  upon  his  track, 
Bearing  the  words  of  Winnepurkit  back. 
"  Dog  of  the  Marsh,"  cried  Pennacook,  "  no  more 
Shall  child  of  mine  sit  on  his  wigwam  floor. 

"  Go,  —  let  him  seek  some  meaner  squaw  to  spread 
The  stolen  bear-skin  of  his  beggar's  bed  : 
Son  of  a  fish-hawk !  —  let  him  dig  his  clams 
For  some  vile  daughter  of  the  Agawams, 


AT  PENNACOOK.  69 

"  Or  coward  Nipmucks  !  —  may  his  scalp  dry  black 
In  Mohawk  smoke,  before  I  send  her  back." 
He  shook  his  clenched  hand  towards  the  ocean  wave, 
While  hoarse  assent  his  listening  council  gave. 

Alas  poor  bride  !  —  can  thy  grim  sire  impart 
His  iron  hardness  to  thy  woman's  heart  ? 
Or  cold  self-torturing  pride  like  his  atone 
For  love  denied  and  life's  warm  beauty  flown  ? 

On  Autumn's  gray  and  mournful  grave  the  snow 
Hung  its  white  wreaths  ;  with  stifled  voice  and  low 
The  river  crept,  by  one  vast  bridge  o'ercrossed, 
Built  by  the  hoar-locked  artisan  of  Frost. 

And  many  a  Moon  in  beauty  newly  born 

Pierced  the  red  sunset  with  her  silver  horn, 

Or,  from  the  east,  across  her  azure  field 

Rolled  the  wide  brightness  of  her  full-orbed  shield. 

Yet  Winnepurkit  came  not,  —  on  the  mat 
Of  the  scorned  wife  her  dusky  rival  sat ; 
And  he,  the  while,  in  Western  woods  afar, 
Urged  the  long  chase,  or  trod  the  path  of  war. 

Dry  up  thy  tears,  young  daughter  of  a  chief! 
Waste  not  on  him  the  sacredness  of  grief ; 
Be  the  fierce  spirit  of  thy  sire  thine  own, 
His  lips  of  scorning,  and  his  heart  of  stone. 

What  heeds  the  warrior  of  a  hundred  fights, 

The  storm-worn  watcher  through  long  hunting  nights, 

Cold,  crafty,  proud  of  woman's  weak  distress, 

Her  home-bound  grief  and  pining  loneliness  ? 


yo  THE  BRIDAL   OF  PENNACOOK. 


VII.     THE    DEPARTURE. 

THE  wild  March  rains  had  fallen  fast  and  long 
The  snowy  mountains  of  the  North  among, 
Making  each  vale  a  watercourse,  —  each  hill 
Bright  with  the  cascade  of  some  new-made  rill. 

Gnawed  by  the  sunbeams,  softened  by  the  rain, 
Heaved  underneath  by  the  swollen  current's  strain, 
The  ice-bridge  yielded,  and  the  Merrimack 
Bore  the  huge  ruin  crashing  down  its  track. 

On  that  strong  turbid  water  a  small  boat, 
Guided  by  one  weak  hand,  was  seen  to  float ; 
Evil  the  fate  which  loosed  it  from  the  shore, 
Too  early  voyager  with  too  frail  an  oar  ! 

Down  the  vexed  centre  of  that  rushing  tide, 
The  thick  huge  ice-blocks  threatening  either  side. 
The  foam-white  rocks  of  Amoskeag  in  view, 
With  arrowy  swiftness  sped  that  light  canoe. 


The  trapper,  moistening  his  moose's  meat 

On  the  wet  bank  by  Uncanoonuc's  feet, 

Saw  the  swift  boat  flash  down  the  troubled  stream  — 

Slept  he,  or  waked  he  ?  —  was  it  truth  or  dream  ? 

The  straining  eye  bent  fearfully  before, 

The  small  hand  clenching  on  the  useless  oar, 

The  bead-wrought  blanket  trailing  o'er  the  water,  — 

He  knew  them  all :  woe  for  the  Sachem's  daughter  ! 


SONG   OF  INDIAN   WOMEN.  71 

Sick  and  aweary  of  her  lonely  life, 
Heedless  of  peril  the  still  faithful  wife 
Had  left  her  mother's  grave,  her  father's  door, 
To  seek  the  wigwam  of  her  chief  once  more. 

Down  the  white  rapids  like  a  sere  leaf  whirled, 

On  the  sharp  rocks  and  piled-up  ices  hurled, 

Empty  and  broken,  circled  the  canoe 

In  the  vexed  pool  below  —  but,  where  wis  Weetamoo  ? 


VIII.     SONG    OF   INDIAN    WOMEN. 

THE  Dark  eye  has  left  us, 

The  Spring-bird  has  flowi?  ; 
On  the  pathway  of  spirits 

She  wanders  alone. 

The  song  of  the  wood-dove  has  died  OP  our  shore,  — 
Mat  wonck  kunna-monee  /'25  —  We  hear  it  no  more  ! 

O,  dark  water  Spirit ! 

We  cast  on  thy  wave 
These  furs  which  may  never 

Hang  over  her  grave  ; 

Bear  down  to  the  lost  one  the  robes  that  she  wore,  •— 
Mat  wonck  kunna-monee  /  —  We  see  her  no  mol*e  I 

Of  the  strange  land  she  walks  in 

No  Powah  has  told  : 
It  may  burn  with  the  sunshine, 

Or  freeze  with  the  cold. 

Let  us  give  to  our  lost  one  the  robes  that  she  wore, 
Mat  ivonck  kunna-monee  /  —  We  see  her  no  rnore  > 


72  THE  BRIDAL    OF  PENNACOOK, 

The  path  she  is  treading 

Shall  soon  be  our  own  ; 
Each  gliding  in  shadow 
Unseen  and  alone  !  — 

In  vain  shall  we  call  on  the  souls  gone  before,  — 
Mat  ivonck  kunna-monee  /  —  They  hear  us  no  more  ! 

O  mighty  Sowanna  !  K 

Thy  gateways  unfold, 
From  thy  wigwam  of  sunset 

Lift  curtains  of  gold  ! 

Take  home  the  poor  Spirit  whose  journey  is  o'er,  — 
Mat  ivonck  kunna-monee  !  —  We  see  her  no  more  ! 

So  sang  the  Children  of  the  Leaves  beside 
The  broad,  dark  river's  coldly-flowing  tide, 
Now  low,  now  harsh,  with  sob-like  pause  and  swell, 
On  the  high  wind  their  voices  rose  and  fell. 
Nature's  wild  music,  —  sounds  of  wind-swept  trees, 
The  scream  of  birds,  the  wailing  of  the  breeze, 
The  roar  of  waters,  steady,  deep,  and  strong, — 
Mingled  and  murmured  in  that  farewell  song. 


LEGENDARY 

1846. 


LEGENDARY. 


THE    MERRIMACK. 

["  The  Indians  speak  of  a  beautiful  river,  far  to  the  south,  which  they 
call  Merrimack."  —  SIEUR  DE  MONTS  :  1604.] 

STREAM  of  my  fathers  !  sweetly  still 
The  sunset  rays  thy  valley  fill  ; 
Poured  slantwise  down  the  long  defile, 
Wave,  wood,  and  spire  beneath  them  smile. 
I  see  the  winding  Powow  fold 
The  green  hill  in  its  belt  of  gold, 
And  following  down  its  wavy  line, 
Its  sparkling  waters  blend  with  thine. 
There  's  not  a  tree  upon  thy  side, 
Nor  rock,  which  thy  returning  tide 
As  yet  hath  left  abrupt  and  stark 
Above  thy  evening  water-mark  ; 
No  calm  cove  with  its  rocky  hem, 
No  isle  whose  emerald  swells  begem 
Thy  broad,  smooth  current ;  not  a  sail 
Bowed  to  the  freshening  ocean  gale ; 
No  small  boat,  with  its  busy  oars, 
Nor  gray  wall  sloping  to  thy  shores  ; 


7  6  LEGENDARY. 

Nor  farm-house  with  its  maple  shade, 

Or  rigid  poplar  colonnade, 

But  lies  distinct  and  full  in  sight, 

Beneath  this  gush  of  sunset  light. 

Centuries  ago,  that  harbor-bar, 

Stretching  its  length  of  foam  afar, 

And  Salisbury's  beach  of  shining  sand, 

And  yonder  island's  wave-smoothed  strand, 

Saw  the  adventurer's  tiny  sail 

Flit,  stooping  from  the  eastern  gale  ;  * 

And  o'er  these  woods  and  waters  broke 

The  cheer  from  Britain's  hearts  of  oak, 

As  brightly  on  the  voyager's  eye, 

Weary  of  forest,  sea,  and  sky, 

Breaking  the  dull  continuous  wood, 

The  Merrimack  rolled  down  his  flood  ; 

Mingling  that  clear  pellucid  brook, 

Which  channels  vast  Agioochook 

When  spring-time's  sun  and  shower  unlock 

The  frozen  fountains  of  the  rock, 

And  more  abundant  waters  given 

From  that  pure  lake,  "The  Smile  of  Heaven,"28 

Tributes  from  vale  and  mountain-side,  — 

With  ocean's  dark,  eternal  tide  ! 

On  yonder  rocky  cape,  which  braves 
The  stormy  challenge  of  the  waves, 
Midst  tangled  vine  and  dwarfish  wood, 
The  hardy  Anglo-Saxon  stood, 
Planting  upon  the  topmost  crag 
The  staff  of  England's  battle-flag  ; 
And,  while  from  out  its  heavy  fold 
Saint  George's  crimson  cross  unrolled, 
Midst  roll  of  drum  and  trumpet  blare, 


THE  MERRIMACK.  77 

And  weapons  brandishing  in  air, 
He  gave  to  that  lone  promontory 
The  sweetest  name  in  all  his  story  ;  " 
Of  her,  the  flower  of  Islam's  daughters, 
Whose  harems  look  on  StambouFs  waters,  — 
Who,  when  the  chance  of  war  had  bound 
The  Moslem  chain  his  limbs  around, 
Wreathed  o'er  with  silk  that  iron  chain, 
Soothed  with  her  smiles  his  hours  of  pain, 
And  fondly  to  her  youthful  slave 
A  dearer  gift  than  freedom  gave. 

But  look  !  —  the  yellow  light  no  more 
Streams  down  on  wave  and  verdant  shore  ; 
And  clearly  on  the  calm  air  swells 
The  twilight  voice  of  distant  bells. 
From  Ocean's  bosom,  white  and  thin, 
The  mists  come  slowly  rolling  in  ; 
Hills,  woods,  the  river's  rocky  rim, 
Amidst  the  sea-like  vapor  swim, 
While  yonder  lonely  coast-light,  set 
Within  its  wave-washed  minaret, 
Half  quenched,  a  beamless  star  and  pale. 
Shines  dimly  through  its  cloudy  veil ! 

Home  of  my  fathers  !  —  I  have  stood 
Where  Hudson  rolled  his  lordly  flood  : 
Seen  sunrise  rest  and  sunset  fade 
Along  his  frowning  Palisade  ; 
Looked  down  the  Apalachian  peak 
On  Juniata's  silver  streak  ; 
Have  seen  along  his  valley  gleam 
The  Mohawk's  softly  winding  stream  ? 
The  level  light  of  sunset  shine 


LEGENDARY. 

Through  broad  Potomac's  hem  of  pine  ; 
And  autumn's  rainbow-tinted  banner 
Hang  lightly  o'er  the  Susquehanna  ; 
Yet,  wheresoe'er  his  step  might  be, 
Thy  wandering  child  looked  back  to  thee  ! 
Heard  in  his  dreams  thy  river's  sound 
Of  murmuring  on  its  pebbly  bound, 
The  unforgotten  swell  and  roar 
Of  waves  on  thy  familiar  shore  \ 
And  saw,  amidst  the  curtained  gloom 
And  quiet  of  his  lonely  room, 
Thy  sunset  scenes  before  him  pass  ; 
As,  in  Agrippa's  magic  glass, 
The  loved  and  lost  arose  to  view, 
Remembered  groves  in  greenness  grew, 
Bathed  still  in  childhood's  morning  dew, 
Along  whose  bowers  of  beauty  swept 
Whatever  Memory's  mourners  wept, 
Sweet  faces,  which  the  charnel  kept, 
Young,  gentle  eyes,  which  long  had  slept ; 
And  while  the  gazer  leaned  to  trace, 
More  near,  some  dear  familiar  face, 
He  wept  to  find  the  vision  flown,  — 
A  phantom  and  a  dream  alone  ! 


THE    NORSEMEN.80 

GIFT  from  the  cold  and  silent  Past ! 
A  relic  to  the  present  cast ; 
Left  on  the  ever-changing  strand 
Of  shifting  and  unstable  sand, 


THE  NORSEMEN. 

Which  wastes  beneath  the  steady  chime 
And  beating  of  the  waves  of  Time  ! 
Who  from  its  bed  of  primal  rock 
First  wrenched  thy  dark,  unshapely  block  ? 
Whose  hand,  of  curious  skill  untaught, 
Thy  rude  and  savage  outline  wrought  ? 

The  waters  of  my  native  stream 

Are  glancing  in  the  sun's  warm  beam  : 

From  sail-urged  keel  and  flashing  oar 

The  circles  widen  to  its  shore  ; 

And  cultured  field  and  peopled  town 

Slope  to  its  willowed  margin  down. 

Yet,  while  this  morning  breeze  is  bringing 

The  home-life  sound  of  school-bells  ringing, 

And  rolling  wheel,  and  rapid  jar 

Of  the  fire-winged  and  steedless  car, 

And  voices  from  the  wayside  near 

Come  quick  and  blended  on  my  ear, 

A  spell  is  in  this  old  gray  stone,  — 

My  thoughts  are  with  the  Past  alone ! 

A  change  !  —  The  steepled  town  no  more 

Stretches  along  the  sail-thronged  shore  ; 

Like  palace-domes  in  sunset's  cloud, 

Fade  sun-gilt  spire  and  mansion  proud  : 

Spectrally  rising  where  they  stood, 

I  see  the  old,  primeval  wood  : 

Dark,  shadow-like,  on  either  hand 

I  see  its  solemn  waste  expand  : 

It  climbs  the  green  and  cultured  hill, 

It  arches  o'er  the  valley;s  rill  ; 

And  leans  from  cliff  and  crag,  to  throw 

Its  wild  arms  o'er  the  stream  below. 


8o  LEGENDARY. 

Unchanged,  alone,  the  same  bright  river 

Flows  on,  as  it  will  flow  forever  ! 

I  listen,  and  I  hear  the  low 

Soft  ripple  where  its  waters  go  ; 

I  hear  behind  the  panther's  cfy, 

The  wild-bird's  scream  goes  thrilling  by, 

And  shyly  on  the  river's  brink 

The  deer  is  stooping  down  to  drink. 

But  hark  !  —  from  wood  and  rock  flung  back, 
What  sound  comes  up  the  Merrimack  ? 
What  sea-worn  barks  are  those  which  throw 
The  light  spray  from  each  rushing  prow  ? 
Have  they  not  in  the  North  Sea's  blast 
Bowed  to  the  waves  the  straining  mast  ? 
Their  frozen  sails  the  low,  pale  sun 
Of  Thule's  night  has  shone  upon  ; 
Flapped  by  the  sea-wind's  gusty  sweep 
Round  icy  drift,  and  headland  steep. 
Wild  Jutland's  wives  and  Lochlin's  daughters 
Have  watched  them  fading  o'er  the  waters, 
Lessening  through  driving  mist  and  spray, 
Like  white- winged  sea-birds  on  their  way  ! 

Onward  they  glide,  —  and  now  I  view 
Their  iron-armed  and  stalwart  crew  ; 
Joy  glistens  in  each  wild  blue  eye, 
Turned  to  green  earth  and  summer  sky : 
Each  broad,  seamed  breast  has  cast  aside 
Its  cumbering  vest  of  shaggy  hide  ; 
Bared  to  the  sun  and  soft  warm  air, 
Streams  back  the  Norsemen's  yellow  hair. 
I  see  the  gleam  of  axe  and  spear, 
The  sound  of  smitten  shields  I  hear, 


THE  NORSEMEN.  81 

Keeping  a  harsh  and  fitting  time 
To  Saga's  chant,  and  Runic  rhyme  ; 
Such  lays  as  Zetland's  Scald  has  sung, 
His  gray  and  naked  isles  among  ; 
Or  muttered  low  at  midnight  hour 
Round  Odin's  mossy  stone  of  power. 
The  wolf  beneath  the  Arctic  moon 
Has  answered  to  that  startling  rune  ; 
The  Gael  has  heard  its  stormy  swell, 
The  light  Frank  knows  its  summons  well; 
lona's  sable-stoled  Culdee 
Has  heard  it  sounding  o'er  the  sea, 
And  swept,  with  hoary  beard  and  hair, 
His  altar's  foot  in  trembling  prayer ! 

'T  is  past,  —  the  'wildering  vision  dies 

In  darkness  on  my  dreaming  eyes  ! 

The  forest  vanishes  in  air, — 

Hill-slope  and  vale  lie  starkly  bare ; 

I  hear  the  common  tread  of  men, 

And  hum  of  work-day  life  again  ; 

The  mystic  relic  seems  alone 

A.  broken  mass  of  common  stone ; 

And  if  it  be  the  chiselled  limb 

Of  Berserker  or  idol  grim,  — 

A  fragment  of  Valhalla's  Thor, 

The  stormy  Viking's  god  of  War, 

Or  Praga  of  the  Runic  lay, 

Or  love-awakening  Siona, 

I  know  not,  —  for  no  graven  line, 

Nor  Druid  mark,  nor  Runic  sign, 

Is  left  me  here,  by  which  to  trace 

Its  name,  or  origin,  or  place. 

Yet,  for  this  vision  of  the  Past, 


82  LEGENDARY. 

This  glance  upon  its  darkness  cast, 
My  spirit  bows  in  gratitude 
Before  the  Giver  of  all  good, 
Who  fashioned  so  the  human  mind, 
That,  from  the  waste  of  Time  behind, 
A  simple  stone,  or  mound  of  earth, 
Can  summon  the  departed  forth  ; 
Quicken  the  Past  to  life  again,  — 
The  Present  lose  in  what  hath  been, 
And  in  their  primal  freshness  show 
The  buried  forms  of  long  ago. 
As  if  a  portion  of  that  Thought 
By  which  the  Eternal  will  is  wrought, 
Whose  impulse  fills  anew  with  breath 
The  frozen  solitude  of  Death, 
To  mortal  mind  were  sometimes  lent, 
To  mortal  musings  sometimes  sent, 
To  whisper  —  even  when  it  seems 
But  Memory's  fantasy  of  dreams  — 
Through  the  mind's  waste  of  woe  and  sin, 
Of  an  immortal  origin  ! 


T 


CASSANDRA    SOUTHWICK, 
1658. 

O  the  God  of  all  sure  mercies  let  my  blessing  rise 

to-day, 
From  the  scoffer  and  the  cruel  He  hath  plucked  the 

spoil  away,  — 
Yea,    He   who  cooled  the  furnace  around  the  faithful 

three, 
And  tamed  the  Chaldean  lions,  hath  set  His  handmaid 

free! 


CASSANDRA   SOUTHWICK.  83 

Last  night  I  saw  the  sunset  melt  through  my  prison 

bars, 
Last  night  across  my  damp  earth-floor  fell  the  pale 

gleam  of  stars  ; 
L.I  the  coldness  and  the  darkness  all  through  the  long 

night-time, 
My  grated  casement  whitened  with  autumn's  early  rime. 

Alone,  in  that  dark  sorrow,  hour  after  hour  crept  by  ; 
Star  after  star  looked  palely  in  and  sank  adown  the  sky  ; 
No  sound  amid  night's  stillness,  save  that  which  seemed 

to  be 
The  dull  and  heavy  beating  of  the  pulses  of  the  sea ; 

All  night  I  sat  unsleeping,  for  I  knew  that  on  the  mor 
row 

The  ruler  and  the  cruel  priest  would  mock  me  in  my 
sorrow, 

Dragged  to  their  place  of  market,  and  bargained  for 
and  sold, 

Like  a  lamb  before  the  shambles,  like  a  heifer  from  the 
fold! 

O,  the  weakness  of  the  flesh  was  there,  —  the  shrinking 

and  the  shame  ; 
And  the  low  voice  of  the  Tempter  like  whispers  to  me 

came : 
"  Why  sit'st  thou  thus  forlornly !  "  the  wicked  murmur 

said, 
"Damp   walls   thy  bower   of  beauty,    cold   earth  thy 

maiden  bed? 

"  Where  be  the  smiling  faces,  and  voices  soft  and  sweet. 
Seen  in  thy  father's  dwelling,   heard  in  the  pleasant 
street  ? 


8  4  LEGENDARY. 

Where  be  the  youths  whose  glances,  the  summer  Sab 
bath  through, 
Turned  tenderly  and  timidly  unto  thy  father's  pew? 

"  Why  sit'st  thou  here,  Cassandra  ?  —  Bethink  thee  with 

what  mirth 
Thy  happy  schoolmates  gather  around  the  warm  bright 

hearth  ; 
How  the  crimson  shadows  tremble  on  foreheads  white 

and  fair, 
On  eyes  of  merry  girlhood,  half  hid  in  golden  hair. 

"  Not  for  thee  the  hearth-fire   brightens,  not  for  thee 

kind  words  are  spoken 
Not  for  thee  the  nuts  of  Wenham  woods  by  laughing 

boys  are  broken, 

No  first-fruits  of  the  orchard  within  thy  lap  are  laid, 
For  thee  no  flowers  of  autumn  the  youthful   hunters 

braid. 

"  O,  weak,  deluded  maiden !  —  by  crazy  fancies  led, 

With  wild  and  raving  railers  an  evil  path  to  tread ; 

To  leave  a  wholesome  worship,  and  teaching  pure  and 
sound ; 

And  mate  with  maniac  women,  loose-haired  and  sack 
cloth  bound. 

"  Mad  scoffers  of  the  priesthood,  who  mock  at  things 
divine, 

Who  rail  against  the  pulpit,  and  holy  bread  and  wine ; 

Sore  from  their  cart-tail  scourgings,  and  from  the  pil 
lory  lame, 

Rejoicing  in  their  wretchedness,  and  glorying  ?n  their 
shame. 


CASSANDRA   SOUTHWICK.  85 

"  And  what  a  fate  awaits  thee  ?  —  a  sadly  toiling  slave, 
Dragging  the  slowly  lengthening  chain  of  bondage  to 

the  grave  ! 
Think  of  thy  woman's  nature,    subdued  in  hopeless 

thrall, 
The  easy  prey  of  any,  the  scoff  and  scorn  of  all ! " 

O,  ever  as  the  Tempter  spoke,  and  feeble  Nature's  fears 
Wrung  drop  by  drop  the  scalding  flow  of  unavailing 

tears, 
I  wrestled  down  the  evil  thoughts,  and  strove  in  silent 

prayer 
To  feel,  O  Helper  of  the  weak !  that  Thou  indeed  wert 

there ! 

I  thought  of  Paul  and  Silas,  within  Philippi's  cell, 

And  how  from  Peter's  sleeping  limbs  the  prison-shack 
les  fell, 

Till  I  seemed  to  hear  the  trailing  of  an  angel's  robe  of 
white, 

And  to  feel  a  blessed  presence  invisible  to  sight. 

Bless  the  Lord  for  all  his  mercies  !  —  for  the  peace  and 

love  I  felt, 

Like  dew  of  Hermon's  holy  hill,  upon  my  spirit  melt ; 
When  "  Get  behind  me,  Satan  !  "  was  the  language  of 

my  heart, 
And  I  felt  the  Evil  Tempter  with  all  his  doubts  depart. 

Slow  broke  the  gray  cold  morning ;  again  the  sunshine 

fell, 
Flecked  with  the  shade  of  bar  and  grate  within  my 

lonely  cell ; 


86  LEGENDARY. 

The  hoar-frost  melted  on  the  wall,  and  upward  from  the 
street 

Came  careless  laugh  and  idle  word,  and  tread  of  pass 
ing  feet. 

At  length  the  heavy  bolts  fell  back,  my  door  was  open 

cast, 
And  slowly,  at  the  sheriff's  side,  up  the  long  street  I 

passed  ; 
I  heard  the  murmur  round  me,  and  felt,  but  dared  not 

see, 
How,  from  every  door  and  window,  the  people  gazed 

on  me. 

And  doubt  and  fear  fell  on  me,  shame  burned  upon  my 

cheek, 
Swam  earth  and  sky  around  me,  my  trembling  limbs 

grew  weak  : 
w  O  Lord  !   support  thy  handmaid  ;  and  from  her  soul 

cast  out 
The  fear  of  man,  which  brings  a  snare,  —  the  weakness 

and  the  doubt." 

Then  the  dreary  shadows  scattered,  like  a  cloud  in 

morning's  breeze, 
And  a  low  deep  voice  within  me  seemed  whispering 

words  like  these  : 
"  Though  thy  earth  be  as  the  iron,  and  thy  heaven  a 

brazen  wall, 
Trust  still  His  loving-kindness  whose  power  is  over 

all." 

We  paused  at  length,  where  at  my  feet  the  sunlit  waters 

broke 
On  glaring  reach  of  shining  beach,  and  shingly  wall  of 

rock  ; 


CASSANDRA   SOUTHWICK.  87 

The  merchant-ships  lay  idly  there,  in  hard  clear  lines 

on  high, 
Tracing  with  rope  and  slender  spar  their  network  on 

the  sky. 

And  there  were  ancient  citizens,  cloak-wrapped  and 

grave  and  cold, 
And  grim  and  stout  sea-captains  with  faces  bronzed 

and  old, 

And  on  his  horse,  with  Rawson,  his  cruel  clerk  at  hand, 
Sat  dark  and  haughty  Endicott,  the  ruler  of  the  land. 

And,  poisoning  with  his  evil  words  the  ruler's  ready  ear, 
The  priest  leaned  o'er  his  saddle,  with  laugh  and  scoff 

and  jeer; 
It  stirred  my  soul,  and  from  my  lips  the  seal  of  silence 

broke, 
As  if  through  woman's  weakness  a  warning  spirit  spoke. 

I  cried,  "The   Lord  rebuke  thee,  thou  siniter  of  the 

meek, 
Thou  robber  of  the  righteous,  thou  trampler  of  the 

weak ! 
Go  light  the  dark,  cold  hearth-stones,  —  go  turn  the 

prison  lock 
Of  the  poor  hearts  thou  hast  hunted,  thou  wolf  amid 

the  flock!" 

Dark  lowered  the  brows  of  Endicott,  and  with  a  deeper 

red 
O'er  Rawson's  wine-empurpled  cheek  the  flush  of  anger 

spread  ; 
"  Good  people,"  quoth  the  white-lipped  priest,  "  heed 

not  her  words  so  wild, 
Her  Master  speaks  within  her,  — the  Devil  owns  his 

child  I " 


88  LEGENDARY. 

But  gray  heads  shook,  and  young  brows  knit,  the  while 

the  sheriff  read 

That  law  the  wicked  rulers  against  the  poor  have  made, 
Who  to  their  house  of  Rimmon  and  idol  priesthood 

bring 
No  bended  knee  of  worship,  nor  gainful  offering. 

Then  to  the   stout   sea-captains   the  sheriff,  turning, 

said,  — 
"  Which  of  ye,  worthy  seamen,  will  take  this  Quaker 

maid  ? 

In  the  Isle  of  fair  Barbadoes,  or  on  Virginia's  shore, 
You  may  hold  her  at  a  higher  price  than  Indian  girl  or 

Moor." 

Grim  and  silent  stood  the  captains  ;  and  when  agaift 

he  cried, 
"  Speak  out,  my  worthy  seamen  !  "  —  no  voice,  no  sign 

replied  ; 
But  I  felt  a  hard  hand  press  my  own,  and  kind  words 

met  my  ear,  — 
*  God  bless  thee,  and  preserve  thee,  my  gentle  girl  and 

dear !  " 

A.  weight  seemed  lifted  from   my   heart,  —  a  pitying 

friend  was  nigh, 

I  felt  it  in  his  hard,  rough  hand,  and  saw  it  in  his  eye ; 
And  whea  again  the  sheriff'  spoke,  that  voice,  so  kind 

to  me, 
Growled  back  its  stormy  answer  like  the  roaring  of  the 

sea, — 

"  Pile  my  ship  with  bars  of  silver,  —  pack  with  coins 

of  Spanish  gold, 
From  keel-piece  up  to  deck-plank,  the  roomage  of  her 

hold, 


CASSANDRA   SOUTHWICK.  89 

By  the  living  God  who  made  me  !  —  I  would  sooner  in 

your  bay 
Sink  ship  and  crew  and  cargo,  than  bear  this  child 

away  !  " 

"  Well  answered,  worthy  captain  ;  shame  on  their  cruel 

laws  ! " 
Ran  through  the  crowd  in  murmurs  loud  the  people's 

just  applause. 

"  Like  the  herdsman  of  Tekoa,  in  Israel  of  old, 
Shall  we  see  the  poor  and  righteous  again  for  silver 

sold?" 

I  looked  on  haughty  Endicott ;  with  weapon  half-way 

drawn, 
Swept  round  the  throng  his  lion  glare  of  bitter  hate 

and  scorn  ; 
Fiercely  he  drew  his  bridle-rein,  and  turned  in  silence 

back, 
And  sneering  priest  and  baffled  clerk  rode  murmuring 

in  his  track. 

Hard  after  them  the  sheriff  looked,  in  bitterness  of  soul ; 
Thrice  smote  his  staff  upon  the  ground,  and  crushed 

his  parchment  roll. 
"  Good  friends,"  he  said,   "  since  both  have  fled,  the 

ruler  and  the  priest, 
fudge  ye,  if  from   their  further  work  I  be  not  well 

released." 

Loud  was  the  cheer  which,  full  and  clear,  swept  round 

the  silent  bay, 
frs,  <vith  kind  words  and  kinder  looks,  he  bade  me  go 

my  way ; 


9o  LEGENDARY. 

For  He  who  turns  the  courses  of  the  streamlet  of  the 

glen, 
And  the  river  of  great  waters,  had  turned  the  hearts 

of  men. 

O,  at  that  hour  the  very  earth  seemed  changed  beneath 
my  eye, 

A  holier  wonder  round  me  rose  the  blue  walls  of  the 
sky, 

A  lovelier  light  on  rock  and  hill,  and  stream  and  wood 
land  lay, 

And  softer  lapsed  on  sunnier  sands  the  waters  of  the 
bay. 

Thanksgiving  to  the  Lord  of  life  !  —  to  Him  all  praises 
be, 

Who  from  the  hands  of  evil  men  hath  set  his  hand 
maid  free ; 

All  praise  to  Him  before  whose  power  the  mighty  are 
afraid, 

Who  takes  the  crafty  in  the  snare  which  for  the  poor 
is  laid  ! 

Sing,  O  my  soul,  rejoicingly,  on  evening's  twilight  calm 
Uplift  the  loud  thanksgiving,  —  pour  forth  the  grateful 

psalm  ; 
Let  all  dear  hearts  with  me  rejoice,  as  did  the  saints 

of  old, 
When  of  the  Lord's  good  angel  the  rescued  Peter  told. 

And  weep  and  howl,  ye  evil  priests  and  mighty  men  of 

wrong, 
The  Lord  shall  smite  the  proud,  and  lay  his  hand  upon 

the  strong. 


FUNERAL    TREE   OF  THE  SOKOKIS.         91 

Woe  to  the  wicked  rulers  in  his  avenging  hour  ! 
Woe  to  the  wolves  who  seek  the  flocks  to  raven  and 
devour ! 

But  let  the  humble  ones  arise,  the  poor  in  heart  be  glad, 
And  let  the  mourning  ones  again  with  robes  of  praise 

be  clad, 
For  He  who   cooled   the    furnace,  and   smoothed  the 

stormy  wave, 
And  tamed  the  Chaldean  lions,  is  mighty  still  to  save  ! 


FUNERAL   TREE    OF   THE    SOKOKIS. 


AROUND  Sebago's  lonely  lake 
There  lingers  not  a  breeze  to  break 
The  mirror  which  its  waters  make. 

The  solemn  pines  along  its  shore, 
The  firs  which  hang  its  gray  rocks  o'er, 
Are  painted  on  its  glassy  floor. 

The  sun  looks  o'er,  with  hazy  eye, 
The  snowy  mountain-tops  which  lie 
Piled  coldly  up  against  the  sky. 

Dazzling  and  white  !  save  where  the  bleak 
Wild  winds  have  bared  some  splintering  peak 
Or  snow-slide  left  its  dusky  streak. 

Yet  green  are  Saco's  banks  below, 
And  belts  of  spruce  and  cedar  show, 
Dark  fringing  round  those  cones  of  snow. 


LEGENDARY. 

The  earth  hath  felt  the  breath  of  spring, 
Though  yet  on  her  deliverer's  wing 
The  lingering  frosts  of  winter  cling. 

Fresh  grasses  fringe  the  meadow-brooks 
And  mildly  from  its  sunny  nooks 
The  blue  eye  of  the  violet  looks. 

And  odors  from  the  springing  grass, 
The  sweet  birch  and  the  sassafras, 
Upon  the  scarce-felt  breezes  pass. 

Her  tokens  of  renewing  care 
Hath  Nature  scattered  everywhere, 
In  bud  and  flower,  and  warmer  air. 

But  in  their  hour  of  bitterness, 
What  reck  the  broken  Sokokis, 
Beside  their  slaughtered  chief,  of  this  ? 

The  turf's  red  stain  is  yet  undried,  — 
Scarce  have  the  death-shot  echoes  died 
Along  Sebago's  wooded  side  : 

And  silent  now  the  hunters  stand, 
Grouped  darkly,  where  a  swell  of  land 
Slopes  upward  from  the  lake's  white  sand 

Fire  and  the  axe  have  swept  it  bare, 
Save  one  lone  beech,  unclosing  there 
Its  light  leaves  in  the  vernal  air. 

With  grave,  cold  looks,  all  sternly  mute, 
They  break  the  damp  turf  at  its  foot, 
And  bare  its  coiled  and  twisted  root 


FUNERAL    TREE  OF   THE  SOKOKIS. 

They  heave  the  stubborn  trunk  aside, 
The  firm  roots  from  the  earth  divide,  — 
The  rent  beneath  yawns  dark  and  wide. 

And  there  the  fallen  chief  is  laid, 
In  tasselled  garbs  of  skins  arrayed, 
And  girded  with  his  wampum-braid. 

The  silver  cross  he  loved  is  pressed 
Beneath  the  heavy  arms,  which  rest 
Upon  his  scarred  and  naked  breast. 

'T  is  done  :  the  roots  are  backward  sent, 
The  beechen-tree  stands  up  unbent,  — 
The  Indian's  fitting  monument ! 

When  of  that  sleeper's  broken  race 
Their  green  and  pleasant  dwelling-place 
Which  knew  them  once,  retains  no  trace  ; 

O,  long  may  sunset's  light  be  shed 
As  now  upon  that  beech's  head,  — 
A  green  memorial  of  the  dead  ! 

There  shall  his  fitting  requiem  be 

In  northern  winds,  that,  cold  and  free, 

Howl  nightly  in  that  funeral  tree. 

To  their  wild  wail  the  waves  which  break 
Forever  round  that  lonely  lake 
A  solemn  undertone  shall  make  ! 

And  who  shall  deem  the  spot  unblest, 
Where  Nature's  younger  children  rest, 
Lulled  on  their  sorrowing  mother's  breast  ? 


93 


94 


LEGENDARY. 

Deem  ye  that  mother  loveth  less 
These  bronzed  forms  of  the  wilderness 
She  foldeth  in  her  long  caress  ? 

As  sweet  o'er  them  her  wild-flowers  blow 
As  if  with  fairer  hair  and  brow 
The  blue-eyed  Saxon  slept  below. 

What  though  the  places  of  their  rest 
No  priestly  knee  hath  ever  pressed, — 
No  funeral  rite  nor  prayer  hath  blest  ? 

What  though  the  bigot's  ban  be  there, 
And  thoughts  of  wailing  and  despair, 
And  cursing  in  the  place  of  prayer  ! 

Yet  Heaven  hath  angels  watching  round 
The  Indian's  lowliest  forest-mound,  — 
And  they  have  made  it  holy  ground. 

There  ceases  man's  frail  judgment ;  all 
His  powerless  bolts  of  cursing  fall 
Unheeded  on  that  grassy  pall. 

O,  peeled,  and  hunted,  and  reviled, 
Sleep  on,  dark  tenant  of  the  wild  ! 
Great  Nature  owns  her  simple  child ! 

And  Nature's  God,  to  whom  alone 
The  secret  of  the  heart  is  known,  — 
The  hidden  language  traced  thereon  ; 

Who  from  its  many  cumberings 

Of  form  and  creed,  and  outward  things, 

To  light  the  naked  spirit  brings  ; 


ST.   JOHN.  95 

Not  with  our  partial  eye  shall  scan, 
Not  with  our  pride  and  scorn  shall  ban, 
The  spirit  of  our  brother  man  ! 


ST.    JOHN. 
1647. 

HPO  the  winds  give  our  banner ! 
-*•     Bear  homeward  again  ! " 
Cried  the  Lord  of  Acadia, 

Cried  Charles  of  Estienne  ; 
From  the  prow  of  his  shallop 

He  gazed,  as  the  sun, 
From  its  bed  in  the  ocean, 

Streamed  up  the  St.  John. 

O'er  the  blue  western  waters 

That  shallop  had  passed, 
Where  the  mists  of  Penobscot 

Clung  damp  on  her  mast. 
St.  Saviour  had  looked 

On  the  heretic  sail, 
As  the  songs  of  the  Huguenot 

Rose  on  the  gale. 

The  pale,  ghostly  fathers 

Remembered  her  well, 
And  had  cursed  her  while  passing, 

With  taper  and  bell, 
But  the  men  of  Monhegan, 

Of  Papists  abhorred, 


96  LEGENDAR  K 

Had  welcomed  and  feasted 
The  heretic  Lord. 


They  had  loaded  his  shallop 

With  dun-fish  and  ball, 
With  stores  for  his  larder, 

And  steel  for  his  wall. 
Pemequid,  from  her  bastions 

And  turrets  of  stone, 
Had  welcomed  his  coming 

With  banner  and  gun. 

And  the  prayers  of  the  elders 

Had  followed  his  way, 
As  homeward  he  glided, 

Down  Pentecost  Bay. 
O,  well  sped  La  Tour ! 

For,  in  peril  and  pain, 
His  lady  kept  watch, 

For  his  coming  again. 

O'er  the  Isle  of  the  Pheasant 

The  morning  sun  shone, 
On  the  plane-trees  which  shaded 

The  shores  of  St.  John. 
"  Now,  why  from  yon  battlements 

Speaks  not  my  love  ? 
Why  waves  there  no  banner 

My  fortress  above  ?  " 

Dark  and  wild,  from  his  deck 
St.  Estienne  gazed  about, 

On  fire-wasted  dwellings, 
And  silent  redoubt ; 


ST.   JOHN. 

From  the  low,  shattered  walls 
Which  the  flame  had  o'errui 

There  floated  no  banner, 
There  thundered  no  gun  ! 

But  beneath  the  low  arch 

Of  its  doorway  there  stood 
A  pale  priest  of  Rome, 

In  his  cloak  and  his  hood. 
With  the  bound  of  a  lion 

La  Tour  sprang  to  land, 
On  the  throat  of  the  Papist 

He  fastened  his  hand. 

"  Speak,  son  of  the  Woman 

Of  scarlet  and  sin  ! 
What  wolf  has  been  prowling 

My  castle  within  ?  " 
From  the  grasp  of  the  soldier 

The  Jesuit  broke, 
Half  in  scorn,  half  in  sorrow, 

He  smiled  as  he  spoke  : 

"  No  wolf,  Lord  of  Estienne, 

Has  ravaged  thy  hall, 
But  thy  red-handed  rival, 

With  fire,  steel,  and  ball ! 
On  an  errand  of  mercy 

I  hitherward  came, 
While  the  walls  of  thy  castle 

Yet  spouted  with  flame. 

"  Pentagoet's  dark  vessels 
Were  moored  in  the  bay, 

5 


LEGENDARY. 

Grim  sea-lions,  roaring 

Aloud  for  their  prey." 
"  But  what  of  my  lady  ?  " 

Cried  Charles  of  Estienne  : 
"  On  the  shot-crumbled  turret 

Thy  lady  was  seen  : 

"  Half-veiled  in  the  smoke-cloud, 

Her  hand  grasped  thy  pennon. 
While  her  dark  tresses  swayed 

In  the  hot  breath  of  cannon  ! 
But  woe  to  the  heretic, 

Evermore  woe  ! 
When  the  son  of  the  church 

And  the  cross  is  his  foe  ! 

"  In  the  track  of  the  shell, 

In  the  path  of  the  ball, 
Pentagoet  swept  over 

The  breach  of  the  wall ! 
Steel  to  steel,  gun  to  gun, 

One  moment,  —  and  then 
Alone  stood  the  victor, 

Alone  with  his  men  ! 

"  Of  its  sturdy  defenders, 

Thy  lady  alone 
Saw  the  cross-blazoned  banner 

Float  over  St.  John." 
"  Let  the  dastard  look  to  it  !  " 

Cried  fiery  Estienne, 
"  Were  D'Aulney  King  Louis, 

I'd  free  her  again!" 


ST.    JOHN.  99 

"  Alas  for  thy  lady  ! 

No  service  from  thee 
Is  needed  by  her 

Whom  the  Lord  hath  set  free  : 
Nine  days,  in  stern  silence, 

Her  thraldom  she  bore, 
But  the  tenth  morning  came, 

And  Death  opened  her  door  !  " 

A.S  if  suddenly  smitten, 

La  Tour  staggered  back  ; 
His  hand  grasped  his  sword-hilt, 

His  forehead  grew  black. 
He  sprang  on  the  deck 

Of  his  shallop  again. 
"  We  cruise  now  for  vengeance  ! 

Give  way  !  "  cried  Estienne. 

"  Massachusetts  shall  hear 

Of  the  Huguenot's  wrong, 
And  from  island  and  creekside 

Her  fishers  shall  throng  ! 
Pentagoet  shall  rue 

What  his  Papists  have  done, 
When  his  palisades  echo 

The  Puritan's  gun  !  " 

O,  the  loveliest  of  heavens 

Hung  tenderly  o'er  him  ; 
There  were  waves  in  the  sunshine, 

And  green  isles  before  him  : 
But  a  pale  hand  was  beckoning 

The  Huguenot  on  ; 
And  in  blackness  and  ashes 

Behind  was  St.  John  ! 


loo  LEGENDARY. 

PENTUCKET. 
1708. 

T  T  OW  sweetly  on  the  wood-girt  town 
*-  -*•    The  mellow  light  of  sunset  shone  ! 
Each  small,  bright  lake,  whose  waters  still 
Mirror  the  forest  and  the  hill, 
Reflected  from  its  waveless  breast 
The  beauty  of  a  cloudless  west, 
Glorious  as  if  a  glimpse  were  given 
Within  the  western  gates  of  heaven, 
Left,  by  the  spirit  of  the  star 
Of  sunset's  holy  hour,  ajar  ! 

Beside  the  river's  tranquil  flood 
The  dark  and  low-walled  dwellings  stood, 
Where  many  a  rood  of  open  land 
Stretched  up  and  down  on  either  hand, 
With  corn-leaves  waving  freshly  green 
The  thick  and  blackened  stumps  between. 
Behind,  unbroken,  deep  and  dread, 
The  wild,  untravelled  forest  spread, 
Back  to  those  mountains,  white  and  cold, 
Of  which  the  Ind.an  trapper  told, 
Upon  whose  summits  never  yet 
Was  mortal  foot  in  safety  set. 

Quiet  and  calm,  without  a  fear 
Of  danger  darkly  lurking  near, 
The  weary  laborer  left  his  plough, 
The  milkmaid  carolled  by  her  cow  ; 
From  cottage  door  and  household  hearth 


PENTUCKET.  101 

Rose  songs  of  praise  or  tones  of  mirth. 

At  length  the  murmur  died  away, 

And  silence  on  that  village  lay. 

So  slept  Pompeii,  tower  and  hall, 

Ere  the  quick  earthquake  swallowed  all, 

Undreaming  of  the  fiery  fate 

Which  made  its  dwellings  desolate ! 

Hours  passed  away.     By  moonlight  sped 
The  Merrimack  along  his  bed. 
Bathed  in  the  pallid  lustre,  stood 
Dark  cottage- wall  and  rock  and  wood, 
Silent,  beneath  that  tranquil  beam, 
As  the  hushed  grouping  of  a  dream. 
Yet  on  the  still  air  crept  a  sound,  — 
No  bark  of  fox,  nor  rabbit's  bound, 
Nor  stir  of  wings,  nor  waters  flowing, 
Nor  leaves  in  midnight  breezes  blowing. 

Was  that  the  tread  of  many  feet 

Which  downward  from  the  hillside  beat  ? 

What  forms  were  those  which  darkly  stood 

Just  on  the  margin  of  the  wood  ?  — 

Charred  tree-stumps  in  the  moonlight  dim, 

Or  paling  rude,  or  leafless  limb  ? 

No,  —  through  the  trees  fierce  eyeballs  glowed, 

Dark  human  forms  in  moonshine  showed, 

Wild  from  their  native  wilderness, 

With  painted  limbs  and  battle-dress  ! 

A  yell  the  dead  might  wake  to  hear 
Swelled  on  the  night  air  far  and  clear,  — 
Then  smote  the  Indian  tomahawk 
On  crashing  door  and  shattering  lock,  — 


102  LEGENDARY.. 

Then  rang  the  rifle-shot, — and  then 
The  shrill  death-scream  of  stricken  men,  - 
Sank  the  red  axe  in  woman's  brain,. 
And  childhood's  cry  arose  in  vain,  — 
Bursting  through  roof  and  window  came, 
Red,  fast,  and  fierce,  the  kindled  flame  ; 
And  blended  fire  and  moonlight  glared 
On  still  dead  men  and  weapons  bared. 

The  morning  sun  looked  brightly  through 
The  river  willows,  wet  with  dew. 
No  sound  of  combat  filled  the  air,  — 
No  shout  was  heard,  —  nor  gunshot  there 
Yet  still  the  thick  and  sullen  smoke 
From  smouldering  ruins  slowly  broke  ; 
And  on  the  greensward  many  a  stain, 
And,  here  and  there,  the  mangled  slain, 
Told  how  that  midnight  bolt  had  sped, 
Pentucket,  on  thy  fated  head  ! 

Even  now  the  villager  can  tell 
Where  Rolfe  beside  his  hearth-stone  fell, 
Still  show  the  door  of  wasting  oak 
Through  which  the  fatal  death-shot  broke, 
And  point  the  curious  stranger  where 
De  Rouville's  corse  lay  grim  and  bare,  — 
Whose  hideous  head,  in  death  still  feared, 
Bore  not  a  trace  of  hair  or  beard,  — 
And  still,  within  the  churchyard  ground, 
Heaves  darkly  up  the  ancient  mound, 
Whose  grass-grown  surface  overlies 
The  victims  of  that  sacrifice. 


THE  FA  MI  LIST'S  HYMN.  IO3 


THE    FAMILIST'S    HYMN. 

FEATHER  !  to  thy  suffering  poor 

Strength  and  grace  and  faith  impart, 
And  with  thy  own  love  restore 

Comfort  to  the  broken  heart  ! 
O,  the  failing  ones  confirm 

With  a  holier  strength  of  zeal !  -— 
Give  thou  not  the  feeble  worm 
Helpless  to  the  spoiler's  heel ! 

Father  !  for  thy  holy  sake 

We  are  spoiled  and  hunted  thus ; 
Joyful,  for  thy  truth  we  take 

Bonds  and  burthens  unto  us  : 
Poor,  and  weak,  and  robbed  of  all, 

Weary  with  our  daily  task, 
That  thy  truth  may  never  fall 

Through  our  weakness,  Lord,  we  ask. 

Round  our  fired  and  wasted  homes 

Flits  the  forest-bird  unscared, 
And  at  noon  the  wild  beast  comes 

Where  our  frugal  meal  was  shared  ; 
For  the  song  of  praises  there 

Shrieks  the  crow  the  livelong  day ; 
For  the  sound  of  evening  prayer 

Howls  the  evil  beast  of  prey  ! 

Sweet  the  songs  we  loved  to  sing 

Underneath  thy  holy  sky,  — 
Words  and  tones  that  used  to  bring 

Tears  of  joy  in  every  eye,  — 


104 


LEGENDARY. 

Dear  the  wrestling  hours  of  prayer, 
When  we  gathered  knee  to  knee, 

Blameless  youth  and  hoary  hair, 
Bowed,  O  God,  alone  to  thee. 

As  thine  earthly  children,  Lord, 

Shared  their  wealth  and  daily  bread, 
Even  so,  with  one  accord, 

We,  in  love,  each  other  fed. 
Not  with  us  the  miser's  hoard, 

Not  with  us  his  grasping  hand  ; 
Equal  round  a  common  board 

Drew  our  meek  and  brother  band  ! 

Safe  our  quiet  Eden  lay 

When  the  war-whoop  stirred  the  land, 
And  the  Indian  turned  away 

From  our  home  his  bloody  hand. 
Well  that  forest- ranger  saw, 

That  the  burthen  and  the  curse 
Of  the  white  man's  cruel  law 

Rested  also  upon  us. 

Torn  apart,  and  driven  forth 

To  our  toiling  hard  and  long, 
Father  !  from  the  dust  of  earth 

Lift  we  still  our  grateful  song  ! 
Grateful,  —  that  in  bonds  we  share 

In  thy  love  which  maketh  free  ; 
Joyful,  —  that  the  wrongs  we  bear, 

Draw  us  nearer,  Lord,  to  thee  ! 

Grateful !  —  that  where'er  we  toil, — 
By  Wachuset's  wooded  side, 


THE    F AM  I  LIST'S    HYMN'.  Ic>5 

On  Nantucket's  sea- worn  isle, 

Or  by  wild  Neponset's  tide,  — 
Still,  in  spirit,  we  are  near, 

And  our  evening  hymns,  which  rise 
Separate  and  discordant  here, 

Meet  and  mingle  in  the  skies ! 

Let  the  scoffer  scorn  and  mock, 

Let  the  proud  and  evil  priest 
Rob  the  needy  of  his  flock, 

For  his  wine-cup  and  his  feast,  — 
Redden  not  thy  bolts  in  store 

Through  the  blackness  of  thy  skies  ? 
For  the  sighing  of  the  poor 

Wilt  Thou  not,  at  length,  arise  ? 


Worn  and  wasted,  oh  !  how  long 

Shall  thy  trodden  poor  complain  ? 
In  thy  name  they  bear  the  wrong, 

In  thy  cause  the  bonds  of  pain! 
Melt  oppression's  heart  of  steel, 

Let  the  haughty  priesthood  see, 
And  their  blinded  followers  feel, 

That  in  us  they  mock  at  Thee ! 

In  thy  time,  O  Lord  of  hosts, 

Stretch  abroad  that  hand  to  save 
Which  of  old,  on  Egypt's  coasts, 

Smote  apart  the  Red  Sea's  wave ! 
Lead  us  from  this  evil  land, 

From  the  spoiler  set  us  free, 
And  once  more  our  gathered  band, 

Heart  to  heart,  shall  worship  thee ! 
s* 


io6  LEGENDARY. 


THE    FOUNTAIN. 


^RAVELLER!  on  thy  journey  toiling 

*~     By  the  swift  Powow, 
With  the  summer  sunshine  falling 

On  thy  heated  brow, 
Listen,  while  all  else  is  still, 
To  the  brooklet  from  the  hill. 

Wild  and  sweet  the  flowers  are  blowing 

By  that  streamlet's  side, 
And  a  greener  verdure  showing 

Where  its  waters  glide,  — 
Down  the  hill-slope  murmuring  on, 
Over  root  and  mossy  stone. 

Where  yon  oak  his  broad  arms  flingeth 

O'er  the  sloping  hill, 
Beautiful  and  freshly  springeth 

That  soft-flowing  rill. 

Through  its  dark  roots  wreathed  and  bare. 
Gushing  up  to  sun  and  air. 

Brighter  waters  sparkled  never 

In  that  magic  well, 
Of  whose  gift  of  life  forever 

Ancient  legends  tell,  — 
In  the  lonely  desert  wasted, 
And  by  mortal  lip  untasted. 


THE  FOUNTAIN.  IC>7 

Waters  which  the  proud  Castilian  S1 

Sought  with  longing  eyes, 
Underneath  the  bright  pavilion 

Of  the  Indian  skies  ; 
Where  his  forest  pathway  lay 
Through  the  blooms  of  Florida. 

Years  ago  a  lonely  stranger, 

With  the  dusky  brow 
Of  the  outcast  forest-ranger, 

Crossed  the  swift  Powow  ; 
And  betook  him  to  the  rill 
And  the  oak  upon  the  hill. 

O'er  his  face  of  moody  sadness 

For  an  instant  shone 
Something  like  a  gleam  of  gladness. 

As  he  stooped  him  down 
To  the  fountain's  grassy  side, 
And  his  eager  thirst  supplied. 

With  the  oak  its  shadow  throwing 

O'er  his  mossy  seat, 
And  the  cool,  sweet  waters  flowing 

Softly  at  his  feet, 
Closely  by  the  fountain's  rim 
That  lone  Indian  seated  him. 

Autumn's  earliest  frost  had  given 

To  the  woods  below 
Hues  of  beauty,  such  as  heaven 

Lendeth  to  its  bow  ; 
And  the  soft  breeze  from  the  west 
Scarcely  broke  their  dreamy  rest. 


I08  LEGENDARY. 

Far  behind  was  Ocean  striving 
With  his  chains  of  sand  ; 

Southward,  sunny  glimpses  giving, 
'Twixt  the  swells  of  land, 

Of  its  calm  and  silvery  track, 

Rolled  the  tranquil  Merrimack. 

Over  village,  wood,  and  meadow 
Gazed  that  stranger  man, 

Sadly,  till  the  twilight  shadow 
Over  all  things  ran, 

Save  where  spire  and  westward  pane 

Flashed  the  sunset  back  again. 

Gazing  thus  upon  the  dwelling 

Of  his  warrior  sires, 
Where  no  lingering  trace  was  telling 

Of  their  wigwam  fires, 
Who  the  gloomy  thoughts  might  know 
Of  that  wandering  child  of  woe  ? 

Naked  lay,  in  sunshine  glowing, 
Hills  that  once  had  stood 

Down  their  sides  the  shadows  throwing 
Of  a  mighty  wood, 

Where  the  deer  his  covert  kept, 

And  the  eagle's  pinion  swept  I 

Where  the  birch  canoe  had  glided 

Down  the  swift  Powow, 
Dark  and  gloomy  bridges  strided 

Those  clear  waters  now  ; 
And  where  once  the  beaver  swam, 
Jarred  the  wheel  and  frowned  the  dam 


THE  FOUNTAIN.  109 

For  the  wood-bird's  merry  singing, 

And  the  hunter's  cheer, 
Iron  clang  and  hammer's  ringing 

Smote  upon  his  ear  ; 
And  the  thick  and  sullen  smoke 
From  the  blackened  forges  broke. 

Could  it  be  his  fathers  ever 

Loved  to  linger  here  ? 
These  bare  hills,  this  conquered  river,— 

Could  they  hold  them  dear, 
With  their  native  loveliness 
Tamed  and  tortured  into  this  ? 

Sadly,  as  the  shades  of  even 

Gathered  o'er  the  hill, 
While  the  western  half  of  heaven 

Blushed  with  sunset  still, 
From  the  fountain's  mossy  seat 
Turned  the  Indian's  weary  feet. 

Year  on  year  hath  flown  forever, 

But  he  came  no  more 
To  the  hillside  or  the  river 

Where  he  came  before. 
But  the  villager  can  tell 
Of  that  strange  man's  visit  well. 

And  the  merry  children,  laden 

With  their  fruits  or  flowers,  — 
Roving  boy  and  laughing  maiden, 

In  their  school-day  hours, 
Love  the  simple  tale  to  tell 
Of  the  Indian  and  his  well. 


IIO  .  LEGENDARY. 

THE    EXILES. 
1660. 

THE  goodman  sat  beside  his  door 
One  sultry  afternoon, 
With  his  young  wife  singing  at  his  side 
An  old  and  godly  tune. 

A  glimmer  of  heat  was  in  the  air  ; 

The  dark  green  woods  were  still ; 
And  the  skirts  of  a  heavy  thunder-cloud 

Hung  over  the  western  hill. 

Black,  thick,  and  vast  arose  that  cloud 

Above  the  wilderness, 
As  some  dark  world  from  upper  air 

Were  stooping  over  this. 

At  times  the  solemn  thunder  pealed, 

And  all  was  still  again, 
Save  a  low  murmur  in  the  air 

Of  coming  wind  and  rain. 

Just  as  the  first  big  rain-drop  fell, 

A  weary  stranger  came, 
And  stood  before  the  farmer's  door, 

With  travel  soiled  and  lame. 

Sad  seemed  he,  yet  sustaining  hope 

Was  in  his  quiet  glance, 
And  peace,  like  autumn's  moonlight,  clothed 

His  tranquil  countenance. 


THE  EXILES. 

A  look,  like  that  his  Master  wore 

In  Pilate's  council-hall : 
It  told  of  wrongs,  —  but  of  a  love 

Meekly  forgiving  all. 

"  Friend !  wilt  thou  give  me  shelter  here  ?  " 

The  stranger  meekly  said  ; 
And,  leaning  on  his  oaken  staff, 

The  goodman's  features  read. 

"  My  life  is  hunted,  —  evil  men 

Are  following  in  my  track  ; 
The  traces  of  the  torturer's  whip 

Are  on  my  aged  back. 

"  And  much,  I  fear,  't  will  peril  thee 

Within  thy  doors  to  take 
A  hunted  seeker  of  the  Truth, 

Oppressed  for  conscience'  sake." 

O,  kindly  spoke  the  goodman's  wife,  — 
"  Come  in,  old  man  !  "  quoth  she,  — 

"  We  will  not  leave  thee  to  the  storm, 
Whoever  thou  mayst  be." 

Then  came  the  aged  wanderer  in, 

And  silent  sat  him  down  ; 
While  all  within  grew  dark  as  night 

Beneath  the  storm-cloud's  frown. 

But  while  the  sudden  lightning's  blaze 

Filled  every  cottage  nook, 
And  with  the  jarring  thunder-roll 

The  loosened  casements  shook, 


II2  LEGENDARY. 

A  heavy  tramp  of  horses'  feet 

Came  sounding  up  the  lane, 
And  half  a  score  of  horse,  or  more, 

Came  plunging  through  the  rain. 

"Now,  Goodman  Macey,  ope  thy  door, — 
We  would  not  be  house-breakers  ; 

A  rueful  deed  thou  'st  done  this  day, 
In  harboring  banished  Quakers." 

Out  looked  the  cautious  goodman  then, 

With  much  of  fear  and  awe, 
For  there,  with  broad  wig  drenched  with  raia, 

The  parish  priest  he  saw. 

"  Open  thy  door,  thou  wicked  man, 

And  let  thy  pastor  in, 
And  give  God  thanks,  if  forty  stripes 

Repay  thy  deadly  sin." 

"  What  seek  ye  ?  "  quoth  the  goodman,  — 

"  The  stranger  is  my  guest ; 
He  is  worn  with  toil  and  grievous  wroivg,— 

Pray  let  the  old  man  rest." 

"  Now,  out  upon  thee,  canting  knave  !  " 
And  strong  hands  shook  the  door ; 

"  Believe  me,  Macey,"  quoth  the  priest,  — 
"  Thou  'It  rue  thy  conduct  sore  !  " 

Then  kindled  Macey's  eye  of  fire  : 
"No  priest  who  walks  the  earth 

Shall  pluck  away  the  stranger-guest 
Made  welcome  to  my  hearth." 


THE  EXILES. 

Down  from  his  cottage  wall  he  caught 

The  matchlock,  hotly  tried 
At  Preston-pans  and  Marston-moor, 

By  fiery  Ireton's  side  ; 

Where  Puritan,  and  Cavalier, 

With  shout  and  psalm  contended  ; 

And  Rupert's  oath,  and  Cromwell's  prayer, 
With  battle-thunder  blended. 

Up  rose  the  ancient  stranger  then  : 

"  My  spirit  is  not  free 
To  bring  the  wrath  and  violence 

Of  evil  men  on  thee  : 

"  And  for  thyself,  I  pray  forbear,  — 

Bethink  thee  of  thy  Lord, 
Who  healed  again  the  smitten  ear, 

And  sheathed  his  follower's  sword. 

"  I  go,  as  to  the  slaughter  led  : 
Friends  of  the  poor,  farewell !  " 

Beneath  his  hand  the  oaken  door 
Back  on  its  hinges  fell. 

"  Come  forth,  old  graybeard,  yea  and  nay," 

The  reckless  scoffers  cried, 
As  to  a  horseman's  saddle-bow 

The  old  man's  arms  were  tied. 

And  of  his  bondage  hard  and  long 

In  Boston's  crowded  jail, 
Where  suffering  woman's  prayer  was  heard, 

With  sickening  childhood's  wail, 


114  LEGENDARY. 

It  suits  not  with  our  tale  to  tell : 
Those  scenes  have  passed  away,  — 

Let  the  dim  shadows  of  the  past 
Brood  o'er  that  evil  day. 

"  Ho,  sheriff  !  "  quoth  the  ardent  priest, —    . 

"  Take  Goodman  Macey  too  ; 
The  sin  of  this  day's  heresy 

His  back  or  purse  shall  rue." 

"  Now,  goodwife,  haste  thee  !"  Macey  cried  ; 

She  caught  his  manly  arm  :  — 
Behind,  the  parson  urged  pursuit, 

With  outcry  and  alarm. 

Ho !  speed  the  Maceys,  neck  or  naught,  — 

The  river-course  was  near  :  — 
The  plashing  on  its  pebbled  shore 

Was  music  to  their  ear. 

A  gray  rock,  tasselled  o'er  with  birch, 

Above  the  waters  hung, 
And  at  its  base,  with  every  wave, 

A  small  light  wherry  swung. 

A  leap  —  they  gain  the  boat  —  and  there 

The  goodman  wields  his  oar  ; 
"  111  luck  betide  them  all,"  he  cried,  - 

"  The  laggards  upon  the  shore." 

Down  through  the  crashing  underwood, 

The  burly  sheriff  came  :  — 
"Stand,  Goodman  Macey,  —  yield  thyself; 

Yield  in  the  King's  own  name," 


THE  EXILES.  1 

"  Now  out  upon  thy  hangman's  face  !  " 

Bold  Macey  answered  then,  — 
"  Whip  women,  on  the  village  green, 

But  meddle  not  with  men.'1'' 

The  priest  came  panting  to  the  shore, — 

His  grave  cocked  hat  was  gone  ; 
Behind  him,  like  some  owl's  nest,  hung 

His  wig  upon  a  thorn. 

"  Come  back,  —  come  back  !  "  the  parson  cried, 

"  The  church's  curse  beware." 
"Curse,  an'  thou  wilt,"  said  Macey,  "but 

Thy  blessing  prithee  spare." 

"Vile  scoffer  !  "  cried  the  baffled  priest,  — 

"  Thou  'It  yet  the  gallows  see." 
"  Who  's  born  to  be  hanged  will  not  be  drowned, 

Quoth  Macey,  merrily ; 

"  And  so,  sir  sheriff  and  priest,  good  by  !  *• 

He  bent  him  to  his  oar, 
And  the  small  boat  glided  quietly 

From  the  twain  upon  the  shore. 

Now  in  the  west,  the  heavy  clouds 

Scattered  and  fell  asunder, 
While  feebler  came  the  rush  of  rain, 

And  fainter  growled  the  thunder. 

And  through  the  broken  clouds  the  sun 

Looked  out  serene  and  warm, 
Painting  its  holy  symbol-light 

Upon  the  passing  storm. 


tl6  LEGENDARY. 

O,  beautiful !  that  rainbow  span, 

O'er  dim  Crane-neck  was  bended;  — 

One  bright  foot  touched  the  eastern  hills, 
And  one  with  ocean  blended. 

By  green  Pentucket's  southern  slope 

The  small  boat  glided  fast,  — 
The  watchers  of  "  the  Block-house  "  saw 

The  strangers  as  they  passed. 

That  night  a  stalwart  garrison 

Sat  shaking  in  their  shoes, 
To  hear  the  dip  of  Indian  oars, — 

The  glide  of  birch  canoes. 

The  fisher-wives  of  Salisbury, 

(The  men  were  all  away,) 
Looked  out  to  see  the  stranger  oar 

Upon  their  waters  play. 

Deer-Island's  rocks  and  fir-trees  threw 
Their  sunset-shadows  o'er  them, 

And  Newbury's  spire  and  weathercocV 
Peered  o'er  the  pines  before  them. 

Around  the  Black  Rocks,  on  their  left, 
The  marsh  lay  broad  and  green  ; 

And  on  their  right,  with  dwarf  shrubs  crowned, 
Plum  Island's  hills  were  seen. 

With  skilful  hand  and  wary  eye 
The  harbor-bar  was  crossed  ;  — 

A  plaything  of  the  restless  wave, 
The  boat  on  ocean  tossed. 


THE  EXILES. 

The  glory  of  the  sunset  heaven 

On  land  and  water  lay,  — 
On  the  steep  hills  of  Agawam, 

On  cape,  and  bluff,  and  bay. 

They  passed  the  gray  rocks  of  Cape  Ann, 
And  Gloucester's  harbor-bar ; 

The  watch-fire  of  the  garrison 
Shone  like  a  setting  star. 

How  brightly  broke  the  morning 

On  Massachusetts  Bay  ! 
Blue  wave,  and  bright  green  island, 

Rejoicing  in  the  day. 

On  passed  the  bark  in  safety 

Round  isle  and  headland  steep, — 

No  tempest  broke  above  them, 
No  fog-cloud  veiled  the  deep. 

Far  round  the  bleak  and  stormy  Cape 

The  vent'rous  Macey  passed, 
And  on  Nantucket's  naked  isle 

Drew  up  his  boat  at  last. 

And  how,  in  log-built  cabin, 

They  braved  the  rough  sea-weather  ; 
And  there,  in  peace  and  quietness, 

Went  down  life's  vale  together  : 

How  others  drew  around  them, 

And  how  their  fishing  sped, 
Until  to  every  wind  of  heaven 

Nantucket's  sails  were  spread ; 


117 


US  LEGENDARY. 

How  pale  Want  alternated 
With  Plenty's  golden  smile  ; 

Behold,  is  it  not  written 
In  the  annals  of  the  isle  ? 

And  yet  that  isle  remaineth 
A  refuge  of  the  free, 

As  when  true-hearted  Macey 
Beheld  it  from  the  sea, 

Free  as  the  winds  that  winnovr 
Her  shrubless  hills  of  sand,  — 

Free  as  the  waves  that  batter 
Along  her  yielding  land. 

Than  hers,  at  duty's  summons, 
No  loftier  spirit  stirs,  — 

Nor  falls  o'er  human  suffering 
A  readier  tear  than  hers. 

God  bless  the  sea-beat  island!  — 
And  grant  forevermore, 

That  charity  and  freedom  dwell, 
As  now,  upon  her  shore  ! 


THE  NEW  WIFE  AND  THE  OLD. 

DARK  the  halls,  and  cold  the  feast,  — 
Gone  the  bridemaids,  gone  the  priest 
All  is  over, — all  is  done, 
Twain  of  yesterday  are  one  I 
Blooming  girl  and  manhood  gray, 
Autumn  in  the  arms  of  May  1 


THE  NEW   WIFE   AND    ThE   OLD.        Iig 

Hushed  within  and  hushed  without, 
Dancing  feet  and  wrestlers'  shout ; 
Dies  the  bonfire  on  the  hill ; 
All  is  dark  and  all  is  still, 
Save  the  starlight,  save  the  breeze 
Moaning  through  the  graveyard  trees  ; 
And  the  great  sea-waves  below, 
Pulse  of  the  midnight  beating  slow. 

From  the  brief  dream  of  a  bride 
She  hath  wakened,  at  his  side. 
With  half-uttered  shriek  and  start,  — 
Feels  she  not  his  beating  heart  ? 
And  the  pressure  of  his  arm, 
And  his  breathing  near  and  warm  ? 

Lightly  from  the  bridal  bed 
Springs  that  fair  dishevelled  head, 
And  a  feeling,  new,  intense, 
Half  of  shame,  half  innocence, 
Maiden  fear  and  wonder  speaks 
Through  her  lips  and  changing  cheeks. 

From  the  oaken  mantel  glowing 
Faintest  light  the  lamp  is  throwing 
On  the  mirror's  antique  mould, 
High-backed  chair,  and  wainscot  old, 
And,  through  faded  curtains  stealing, 
His  dark  sleeping  face  revealing. 

Listless  lies  the  strong  man  there, 
Silver-streaked  his  careless  hair; 
Lips  of  love  have  left  no  trace 
On  that  hard  and  haughty  face ; 
And  that  forehead's  knitted  thought 
Love's  soft  hand  hath  not  unwrought 


I2o  LEGENDARY. 

"Yet,"  she  sighs,  "he  loves  me  well, 
More  thar  these  calm  lips  will  tell 
Stooping  to  my  lowly  state, 
He  hath  m.ide  me  rich  and  great, 
And  I  bless  him,  though  he  be 
Hard  and  stern  to  all  save  me  !  " 

While  she  sp^ iketh  falls  the  light 
O'er  her  fingers  small  and  white  ; 
Gold  and  gem,  and  costly  ring 
Back  the  timid  lustre  fling,  — 
Love's  selectest  gifts,  and  rare, 
His  proud  hand  had  fastened  there. 

Gratefully  she  marks  the  glow 
From  those  tapering  lines  of  snow ; 
Fondly  o'er  the  sleeper  bending 
His  black  hair  with  golden  blending, 
In  her  soft  and  light  caress, 
Cheek  and  lip  together  press. 

Ha !  —  that  start  of  horror !  —  Why 
That  wild  stare  and  wilder  cry, 
Full  of  terror,  full  of  pain  ? 
Is  there  madness  in  her  brain  ? 
Hark  !  that  gasping,  hoarse  and  low, 
"  Spare  me,  —  spare  me,  —  let  me  go  ! 

God  have  mercy  !  —  Icy  cold 
Spectral  hands  her  own  enfold, 
Drawing  silently  from  them 
Love's  fair  gifts  of  gold  and  gem, 
"  Waken  !  save  me  !  "  still  as  death 
At  her  side  he  slumbereth. 


THE  NEW   WIFE   AND    THE   OLD.        I2i 

Ring  and  bracelet  all  are  gone, 

And  that  ice-cold  hand  withdrawn ; 

But  she  hears  a  murmur  low, 

Full  of  sweetness,  full  of  woe, 

Half  a  sigh  and  half  a  moan  : 

"  Fear  not !  give  the  dead  her  own  !  " 

Ah  !  —  the  dead  wife's  voice  she  knows  ! 

That  cold  hand  whose  pressure  froze, 

Once  in  warmest  life  had  borne 

Gem  and  band  her  own  hath  worn. 

"  Wake  thee  !  wake  thee  !  "     Lo,  his  eyes 

Open  with  a  dull  surprise. 

In  his  arms  the  strong  man  folds  her, 
Closer  to  his  breast  he  holds  her  ; 
Trembling  limbs  his  own  are  meeting, 
And  he  feels  her  heart's  quick  beating : 
"  Nay,  my  dearest,  why  this  fear  ?  " 
"  Hush!"  she  saith,  "the  dead  is  here!" 

"  Nay,  a  dream,  —  an  idle  dream." 
But  before  the  lamp's  pale  gleam 
Tremblingly  her  hand  she  raises,  — 
There  no  more  the  diamond  blazes, 
Clasp  of  pearl,  or  ring  of  gold,  — 
"  Ah  !  "  she  sighs,  "  her  hand  was  cold  !  » 

Broken  words  of  cheer  he  saith, 

But  his  dark  lip  quivereth, 

And  as  o'er  the  past  he  thinketh, 

From  his  young  wife's  arms  he  shrinketh ; 

Can  those  soft  arms  round  him  lie, 

Underneath  his  dead  wife's  eye  ? 


122  LEGENDARY. 

She  her  fair  young  head  can  rest 

Soothed  and  childlike  on  his  breast, 

And  in  trustful  innocence 

Draw  new  strength  and  courage  thence; 

He,  the  proud  man,  feels  within 

But  the  cowardice  of  sin  ! 

She  can  murmur  in  her  thought 
Simple  prayers  her  mother  taught, 
And  His  blessed  angels  call, 
Whose  great  love  is  over  all ; 
He,  alone,  in  prayerless  pride, 
Meets  the  dark  Past  at  her  side  ! 

One,  who  living  shrank  with  dread 
From  his  look,  or  word,  or  tread, 
Unto  whom  her  early  grave 
Was  as  freedom  to  the  slave, 
Moves  him  at  this  midnight  hour 
With  the  dead's  unconscious  power  I 

Ah,  the  dead,  the  unforgot  ! 

From  their  solemn  homes  of  thought, 

Where  the  cypress  shadows  blend 

Darkly  over  foe  and  friend, 

Or  in  love  or  sad  rebuke, 

Back  upon  the  living  look. 

And  the  tenderest  ones  and  weakest, 
Who  their  wrongs  have  borne  the  meekest, 
Lifting  from  those  dark,  still  places, 
Sweet  and  sad-remembered  faces, 
O'er  the  guilty  hearts  behind 
An  unwitting  triumph  find. 


VOICES    OF    FREEDOM. 

FROM    1833    TO    1848. 


-H 


VOICES    OF   FREEDOM. 

FROM    1833   TO    1848. 

TOUSSAINT    L'OUVERTURE.32 

WAS  night.     The  tranquil  moonlight  smile 

With  which  Heaven  dreams  of  Earth,  shed  down 
Its  beauty  on  the  Indian  isle,  — 

On  broad  green  field  and  white-walled  town ; 
And  inland  waste  of  rock  and  wood, 
In  searching  sunshine,  wild  and  rude, 
Rose,  mellowed  through  the  silver  gleam, 
Soft  as  the  landscape  of  a  dream, 
All  motionless  and  dewy  wet, 
Tree,  vine,  and  flower  in  shadow  met : 
The  myrtle  with  its  snowy  bloom, 
Crossing  the  nightshade's  solemn  gloom,  — 
The  white  cecropia's  silver  rind 
Relieved  by  deeper  green  behind, — • 
The  orange  with  its  fruit  of  gold,  — 
The  lithe  paullinia's  verdant  fold,  — 
The  passion-flower,  with  symbol  holy, 
Twining  its  tendrils  long  and  lowly,— 
The  rhexias  dark,  and  cassia  tall, 
And,  proudly  rising  over  all, 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

The  kingly  palm's  imperial  stem, 
Crowned  with  its  leafy  diadem, 
Star-like,  beneath  whose  sombre  shade, 
The  fiery-winged  cucullo  played  ! 
Yes,  —  lovely  was  thine  aspect,  then, 

Fair  island  of  the  Western  Sea  ! 
Lavish  of  beauty,  even  when 
Thy  brutes  were  happier  than  thy  men, 

For  they,  at  least,  were  free ! 
Regardless  of  thy  glorious  clime, 

Unmindful  of  thy  soil  of  flowers, 
The  toiling  negro  sighed,  that  Time 

No  faster  sped  his  hours. 
For,  by  the  dewy  moonlight  still, 
He  fed  the  weary-turning  mill, 
Or  bent  him  in  the  chill  morass, 
To  pluck  the  long  and  tangled  grass, 
And  hear  above  his  scar-worn  back 
The  heavy  slave-whip's  frequent  crack  ; 
While  in  his  heart  one  evil  thought 
In  solitary  madness  wrought, 
One  baleful  fire  surviving  still 

The  quenching  of  the  immortal  mind, 

One  sterner  passion  of  his  kind, 
Which  even  fetters  could  not  kill,  — 
The  savage  hope,  to  deal,  erelong, 
A  vengeance  bitterer  than  his  wrong  ! 

Hark  to  that  cry  !  — long,  loud,  and  shrill, 
From  field  and  forest,  rock  and  hill, 
Thrilling  and  horrible  it  rang, 

Around,  beneath,  above  ;  — 
The  wild  beast  from  his  cavern  sprang, 

The  wild  bird  from  her  grove  ! 


TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE. 


127 


Nor  fear,  nor  joy,  nor  agony 
Were  mingled  in  that  midnight  cry  ; 
But  like  the  lion's  growl  of  wrath, 
When  falls  that  hunter  in  his  path 
Whose  barbe'd  arrow,  deeply  set, 
Is  rankling  in  his  bosom  yet, 
It  told  of  hate,  full,  deep,  and  strong, 
Of  vengeance  kindling  out  of  wrong  ; 
It  was  as  if  the  crimes  of  years  — 
The  unrequited  toil,  the  tears, 
The  shame  and  hate,  which  liken  well 
Earth's  garden  to  the  nether  hell  — 
Had  found  in  Nature's  self  a  tongue, 
On  which  the  gathered  horror  hung  ; 
As  if  from  cliff,  and  stream,  and  glen 
Burst  on  the  startled  ears  of  men 
That  voice  which  rises  unto  God, 
Solemn  and  stern,  —  the  cry  of  blood  ! 
It  ceased,  —  and  all  was  still  once  more, 
Save  ocean  chafing  on  his  shore, 
The  sighing  of  the  wind  between 
The  broad  banana's  leaves  cf  green, 
Or  bough  by  restless  plumage  shook, 
Or  murmuring  voice  of  mountain  brook. 

Brief  was  the  silence.     Once  again 
Pealed  to  the  skies  that  frantic  yell, 

Glowed  on  the  heavens  a  fiery  stain, 
And  flashes  rose  and  fell ; 

And  painted  on  the  blood-red  sky, 

Dark,  naked  arms  were  tossed  on  high  ; 

And,  round  the  white  man's  lordly  hall, 
Trod,  fierce  and  free,  the  brute  he  made; 

And  those  who  crept  along  the  wall, 


T 


128  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

And  answered  to  his  lightest  call 

With  more  than  spaniel  dread,  — 
The  creatures  of  his  lawless  beck,  T— 
Were  trampling  on  his  very  neck  ! 
And  on  the  night-air,  wild  and  clear, 
Rose  woman's  shriek  of  more  than  fear  ; 
For  bloodied  arms  were  round  her  thrown, 
And  dark  cheeks  pressed  against  her  own ! 

Then,  injured  Afric  !  —  for  the  shame 
Of  thy  own  daughters,  vengeance  came 
Full  on  the  scornful  hearts  of  those, 
Who  mocked  thee  in  thy  nameless  woes, 
And  to  thy  hapless  children  gave 
One  choice,  —  pollution  or  the  grave  ! 

Where  then  was  he  whose  fiery  zeal 
Had  taught  the  trampled  heart  to  feel, 
Until  despair  itself  grew  strong, 
And  vengeance  fed  its  torch  from  wrong  ? 
Now,  when  the  thunderbolt  is  speeding ; 
Now,  when  oppression's  heart  is  bleeding ; 
Now,  when  the  latest  curse  of  Time 

Is  raining  down  in  fire  and  blood,  — 
That  curse  which,  through  long  years  of  crime, 

Has  gathered,  drop  by  drop,  its  flood, — 
Why  strikes  he  not,  the  foremost  one, 
Where  murder's  sternest  deeds  are  done  ? 

He  stood  the  aged  palms  beneath, 

That  shadowed  o'er  his  humble  door, 
Listening,  with  half-suspended  breath, 
To  the  wild  sounds  of  fear  and  death,  — 
Toussaint  1'Ouverture ! 


TO  USSAINT  L1 0  UVER  JURE.  j  2  ? 

What  marvel  that  his  heart  beat  high  ! 

The  blow  for  freedom  had  been  given, 
And  blood  had  answered  to  the  cry 

Which  Earth  sent  up  to  Heaven ! 
What  marvel  that  a  fierce  delight 
Smiled  grimly  o'er  his  brow  of  night,  — 
As  groan  and  shout  and  bursting  flame 
Told  where  the  midnight  tempest  came, 
With  blood  and  fire  along  its  van, 
And  death  behind  !  —  he  was  a  Man  ! 

Yes,  dark-souled  chieftain  !  —  if  the  light 

Of  mild  Religion's  heavenly  ray 
Unveiled  not  to  thy  mental  sight 

The  lowlier  and  the  purer  way, 
In  which  the  Holy  Sufferer  trod, 

Meekly  amidst  the  sons  of  crime,  — 
That  calm  reliance  upon  God 

For  justice  in  his  own  good  time, 

That  gentleness  to  which  belongs 
Forgiveness  for  its  many  wrongs, 
Even  as  the  primal  martyr,  kneeling 

"  For  mercy  on  the  evil-dealing, 

Let  not  the  favored  white  man  name 
Thy  stern  appeal,  with  words  of  blame. 
Has  he  not,  with  the  light  of  heaven 

Broadly  around  him,  made  the  same  ? 
Yea,  on  his  thousand  war-fields  striven, 

And  gloried  in  his  ghastly  shame  ?  — 
Kneeling  amidst  his  brother's  blood, 
To  offer  mockery  unto  God, 
As  if  the  High  and  Holy  One 
Could  smile  on  deeds  of  murder  done  1  — 
As  if  a  human  sacrifice 

6* 


130  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

Were  purer  in  his  Holy  eyes, 

Though  offered  up  by  Christian  hands, 

Than  the  foul  rites  of  Pagan  lands  ! 


Sternly,  amidst  his  household  band, 
His  carbine  grasped  within  his  hand, 

The  white  man  stood,  prepared  and  still, 
Waiting  the  shock  of  maddened  men, 
Unchained,  and  fierce  as  tigers,  when 

The  horn  winds  through  their  caverned  hill 
And  one  was  weeping  in  his  sight,  — 

The  sweetest  flower  of  all  the  isle,  — 
The  bride  who  seemed  but  yesternight 

Love's  fair  embodied  smile. 
And,  clinging  to  her  trembling  knee 
Looked  up  the  form  of  infancy, 
With  tearful  glance  in  either  face 
The  secret  of  its  fear  to  trace. 
"  Ha  !  stand  or  die  !  "     The  white  man's  eye 

His  steady  musket  gleamed  along, 
As  a  tall  Negro  hastened  nigh, 

With  fearless  step  and  strong. 
"What,  ho,  Toussaint !"     A  moment  more, 
His  shadow  crossed  the  lighted  floor. 
"  Away  !  "  he  shouted  ;  "  fly  with  me,  — 
The  white  man's  bark  is  on  the  sea  ;  — 
Her  sails  must  catch  the  seaward  wind, 
For  sudden  vengeance  sweeps  behind. 
Our  brethren  from  their  graves  have  spoken, 
The  yoke  is  spurned,  the  chain  is  broken  ; 
On  all  the  hills  our  fires  are  glowing,  — 
Through  all  the  vales  red  blood  is  flowing ! 
No  more  the  mocking  White  shall  rest 


TOUSSAINT  nOUVERTURR.  131 

His  foot  upon  the  Negro's  breast ; 

No  more,  at  morn  or  eve,  shall  drip 

The  warm  blood  from  the  driver's  whip  : 

Yet,  though  Toussaint  has  vengeance  sworn 

For  all  the  wrongs  his  race  have  borne,  — 

Though  for  each  drop  of  Negro  blood 

The  white  man's  veins  shall  pour  a  flood  ; 

Not  all  alone  the  sense  of  ill 

Around  his  heart  is  lingering  still, 

Nor  deeper  can  the  white  man  feel 

The  generous  warmth  of  grateful  zeal. 

Friends  of  the  Negro  !  fly  with  me,  — 

The  path  is  open  to  the  sea : 

Away,  for  life  ! "  -—  He  spoke,  and  pressed 

The  young  child  to  his  manly  breast, 

As,  headlong,  through  the  cracking  cane, 

Down  swept  the  dark  insurgent  train, — 

Drunken  and  grim,  with  shout  and  yell 

Howled  through  the  dark,  like  sounds  from  hell. 

Far  out,  in  peace,  the  white  man's  sail 
Swayed  free  before  the  sunrise  gale. 
Cloud-like  that  island  hung  afar, 

Along  the  bright  horizon's  verge, 
O'er  which  the  curse  of  servile  war 

Rolled  its  red  torrent,  surge  on  surge ; 
And  he  —  the  Negro  champion  —  where 

In  the  fierce  tumult  struggled  he  ? 
Go  trace  him  by  the  fiery  glare 
Of  dwellings  in  the  midnight  air,  — 
The  yells  of  triumph  and  despair,  — 

The  streams  that  crimson  to  the  sea ! 

Sleep  calmly  in  thy  dungeon-tomb, 
Beneath  Besangon's  alien  sky, 


I32 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

Dark  Haytien  !  —  for  the  time  shall  come, 

Yea,  even  now  is  nigh,  — 

When,  everywhere,  thy  name  shall  be 

Redeemed  from  color's  infamy ; 

And  men  shall  learn  to  speak  of  thee 

As  one  of  earth's  great  spirits,  born 

In  servitude,  and  nursed  in  scorn, 

Casting  aside  the  weary  weight 

And  fetters  of  its  low  estate, 

In  that  strong  majesty  of  soul 

Which  knows  no  color,  tongue,  or  clime,  — 
Which  still  hath  spurned  the  base  control 

Of  tyrants  through  all  time  ! 
Far  other  hands  than  mine  may  wreath 
The  laurel  round  the  brow  of  death, 
And  speak  thy  praise  as  one  whose  word 
A  thousand  fiery  spirits  stirred,  — 
Who  crushed  his  foeman  as  a  worm,  — 
Whose  step  on  human  hearts  fell  firm  :  — M 
Be  mine  the  better  task  to  find 
A  tribute  for  thy  lofty  mind, 
Amidst  whose  gloomy  vengeance  shone 
Some  milder  virtues  all  thine  own,  — 
Some  gleams  of  feeling,  pure  and  warm, 
Like  sunshine  on  a  sky  of  storm,  — 
Proofs  that  the  Negro's  heart  retains 
Some  nobleness  amidst  its  chains,  — 
That  kindness  to  the  wronged  is  never 

Without  its  excellent  reward, — 
Holy  to  human-kind,  and  ever 

Acceptable  to  God. 


THE  SLAVE-SHIPS.  133 


THE    SLAVE-SHIPS.84 

"  That  fatal,  that  perfidious  bark, 
Built  i'  the  eclipse,  and  rigged  with  curses  dark." 

MILTON'S    Lycidas. 

"ALL  ready  ?"  cried  the  captain  ; 

"  Ay,  ay  !  "  the  seamen  said  ; 
"  Heave  up  the  worthless  lubbers,  — 

The  dying  and  the  dead." 
Up  from  the  slave-ship's  prison 

Fierce,  bearded  heads  were  thrust : 
"  Now  let  the  sharks  look  to  it,  — 
Toss  up  the  dead  ones  first !  " 

Corpse  after  corpse  came  up,  — 

Death  had  been  busy  there  ; 
Where  every  blow  is  mercy, 

Why  should  the  spoiler  spare  ? 
Corpse  after  corpse  they  cast 

Sullenly  from  the  ship, 
Yet  bloody  with  the  traces 

Of  fetter-link  and  whip. 

Gloomily  stood  the  captain, 

With  his  arms  upon  his  breast, 
With  his  cold  brow  sternly  knotted, 

And  his  iron  lip  compressed. 
"  Are  all  the  dead  dogs  over  ? " 

Growled  through  that  matted  lip,  — 
"  The  blind  ones  are  no  better, 

Let 's  lighten  the  good  ship." 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM, 

Hark  !  from  the  ship's  dark  bosom, 

The  very  sounds  of  hell ! 
The  ringing  clank  of  iron,  — 

The  maniac's  short,  sharp  yell !  — 
The  hoarse,  low  curse,  throat-stifled,  • 

The  starving  infant's  moan,  — 
The  horror  of  a  breaking  heart 

Poured  through  a  mother's  groan. 

Up  from  that  loathsome  prison 

The  stricken  blind  ones  came  ; 
Below  had  all  been  darkness,  — 

Above  was  still  the  same. 
i*et  the  holy  breath  of  heaven 

Was  sweetly  breathing  there, 
,*nd  the  heated  brow  of  fever 

Cooled  in  the  soft  sea  air. 

M  Overboard  with  them,  shipmates  I '' 

Cutlass  and  dirk  were  plied  ; 
Fettered  and  blind,  one  after  one, 

Plunged  down  the  vessel's  side. 
The  sabre  smote  above,  — 

Beneath,  the  lean  shark  lay, 
Waiting  with  wide  and  bloody  jaw 

His  quick  and  human  prey. 

God  of  the  earth !  what  cries  • 

Rang  upward  unto  thee  ? 
Voices  of  agony  and  blood, 

From  ship-deck  and  from  sea. 
The  last  dull  plunge  was  heard,  — 

The  last  wave  caught  its  stain,  — 
And  the  unsaied  shark  looked  up 

For  human  hearts  in  vain. 


THE  SLAVE-SHIPS.  135 

Red  glowed  the  western  waters,  — 

The  setting  sun  was  there, 
Scattering  alike  on  wave  and  cloud 

His  fiery  mesh  of  hair. 
Amidst  a  group  in  blindness, 

A  solitary  eye 
Gazed,  from  the  burdened  slaver's  deck^ 

Into  that  burning  sky. 

"  A  storm,"  spoke  out  the  gazer, 

"Is  gathering  and  at  hand,  — 
Curse  on  't  —  I  'd  give  my  other  eye 

For  one  firm  rood  of  land." 
And  then  he  laughed,  —  but  only 

His  echoed  laugh  replied,  — 
For  the  blinded  and  the  suffering 

Alone  were  at  his  side. 

Night  settled  on  the  waters, 

And  on  a  stormy  heaven, 
While  fiercely  on  that  lone  ship's  track 

The  thunder-gust  was  driven. 
"  A  sail  !  —  thank  God,  a  sail ! " 

And  as  the  helmsman  spoke, 
Up  through  the  stormy  murmur 

A  shout  of  gladness  broke. 

Down  came  the  stranger  vessel, 

Unheeding  on  her  way, 
So  near,  that  on  the  slaver's  deck 

Fell  off  her  driven  spray. 
"  Ho  !  for  the  love  of  mercy,  — 

We  're  perishing  and  blind  !  " 
A  wail  of  utter  agony 

Came  back  upon  the  wind  : 


136  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

u  Help  us  /  for  we  are  stricken 

With  blindness  every  one  ; 
Ten  days  we  Ve  floated  fearfully, 

Unnoting  star  or  sun. 
Our  ship  's  the  slaver  Leon,  — 

We  Ve  but  a  score  on  board,  — - 
Our  slaves  are  all  gone  over,  — 

Help,  —for  the  love  of  God  1" 

On  livid  brows  of  agony 

The  broad  red  lightning  shone,  — - 
But  the  roar  of  wind  and  thunder 

Stifled  the  answering  groan. 
Wailed  from  the  broken  waters 

A  last  despairing  cry, 
As,  kindling  in  the  stormy  light, 

The  stranger  ship  went  by. 
*         %        *        *         # 
In  the  sunny  Guadaloupe 

A  dark-hulled  vessel  lay,  — 
With  a  crew  who  noted  never 

The  nightfall  or  the  day. 
The  blossom  of  the  orange 

Was  white  by  every  stream, 
And  tropic  leaf,  and  flower,  and  bird 

Were  in  the  warm  sunbeam. 

And  the  sky  was  bright  as  ever, 

And  the  moonlight  slept  as  well, 
On  the  palm-trees  by  the  hillside 

And  the  streamlet  of  the  dell: 
And  the  glances  of  the  Creole 

Were  still  as  archly  deep, 
And  her  smiles  as  full  as  ever 

Of  passion  and  of  sleep. 


STANZAS.  137 

But  vain  were  bird  and  blossom, 

The  green  earth  and  the  sky, 
And  the  smile  of  human  faces, 

To  the  slaver's  darkened  eye  ; 
At  the  breaking  of  the  morning, 

At  the  star-lit  evening  time, 
O'er  a  world  of  light  and  beauty 

Fell  the  blackness  of  his  crime. 


STANZAS. 

[  "The  despotism  which  our  fathers  could  not  bear  in  their  native  coun 
try  is  expiring,  and  the  sword  of  justice  in  her  reformed  hands  has  applied 
its  exterminating  edge  to  slavery.  Shall  the  United  States  —  the  free 
United  States,  which  could  not  bear  the  bonds  of  a  king  —  cradle  the 
bondage  which  a  king  is  abolishing?  Shall  a  Republic  be  less  free  than  a 
Monarchy?  Shall  we,  in  the  vigor  and  buoyancy  of  our  manhood,  be  less 
energetic  in  righteousness  than  a  kingdom  in  its  age?"  —  DR.  POLLEN'S 
A  ddress. 

"Genius  of  America!  —  Spirit  of  our  free  institutions!  —  where  art 
thou  ?  —  How  art  thou  fallen,  O  Lucifer  !  son  of  the  morning,  —  how  art 
then  fallen  from  Heaven  !  Hell  from  beneath  is  moved  for  thee,  to  meet 
thee  at  thy  coming! — -The  kings  of  the  earth  cry  out  to  thee,  Aha  I 
Aha  !  —  ART  THOU  BECOME  LIKE  UNTO  us  1  "  —  Speech  of  SAMUEL  J. 
MAY.] 

OUR  fellow-countrymen  in  chains  ! 
Slaves  —  in  a  land  of  light  and  law  ! 
Slaves  —  crouching  on  the  very  plains 

Where  rolled  the  storm  of  Freedom's  war ! 
A  groan  from  Eutaw's  haunted  wood,  — 

A  wail  where  Camden's  martyrs  fell, — 
By  every  shrine  of  patriot  blood, 
From  Moultrie's  wall  and  Jasper's  well ! 


138  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM, 

By  storied  hill  and  hallowed  grot, 

By  mossy  wood  and  marshy  glen, 
Whence  rang  of  old  the  rifle-shot, 

And  hurrying  shout  of  Marion's  men  ! 
The  groan  of  breaking  hearts  is  there, — 

The  falling  lash,  —the  fetter's  clank  ! 
Slaves,  —  SLAVES  are  breathing  in  that  air, 

Which  old  De  Kalb  and  Sumter  drank ! 

What,  ho  !  —  oiir  countrymen  in  chains  ! 

The  whip  on  WOMAN'S  shrinking  flesh ! 
Our  soil  yet  reddening  with  the  stains 

Caught  from  her  scourging,  warm  and  fresh  ! 
What  !  mothers  from  their  children  riven  ! 

What !  God's  own  image  bought  and  sold  ! 
AMERICANS  to  market  driven, 

And  bartered  as  the  brute  for  gold  1 

Speak  !  shall  their  agony  of  prayer 

Come  thrilling  to  our  hearts  in  vain  ? 
To  us  whose  fathers  scorned  to  bear 

The  paltry  menace  of  a  chain  ; 
To  us,  whose  boast  is  loud  and  long 

Of  holy  Liberty  and  Light,  — 
Say,  shall  these  writhing  slaves  of  Wrong, 

Plead  vainly  for  their  plundered  Right  ? 

What!  shall  we  send,  with  lavish  breath, 

Our  sympathies  across  the  wave, 
Where  Manhood,  on  the  field  of  death, 

Strikes  for  his  freedom  or  a  grave  ? 
Shall  prayers  go  up,  and  hymns  be  sung 

For  Greece,  the  Moslem  fetter  spurning, 
And  millions  hail  with  pen  and  tongue 

Our  light  on  all  her  altars  burning  ? 


STANZAS.  139 


Shall  Belgium  feel,  and  gallant  France, 

By  Vendome's  pile  and  Schoenbrun's  wall, 
And  Poland,  gasping  on  her  lance, 

The  impulse  of  our  cheering  call  ? 
And  shall  the  SLAVE,  beneath  our  eye, 

Clank  o'er  our  fields  his  hateful  chain  ? 
And  toss  his  fettered  arms  on  high, 

And  groan  for  Freedom's  gift,  in  vain  ? 

O,  say,  shall  Prussia's  banner  be 

A  refuge  for  the  stricken  slave  ? 
And  shall  the  Russian  serf  go  free 

By  Baikal's  lake  and  Neva's  wave  ? 
And  shall  the  wintry-bosomed  Dane 

Relax  the  iron  hand  of  pride, 
And  bid  his  bondmen  cast  the  chain, 

From  fettered  soul  and  limb,  aside  ? 

Shall  every  flap  of  England's  flag 

Proclaim  that  all  around  are  free,. 
From  "farthest  Ind"  to  each  blue  crag 

That  beetles  o'er  the  Western  Sea  ? 
And  shall  we  scoff  at  Europe's  kings, 

When  Freedom's  fire  is  dim  with  us, 
And  round  our  country's  altar  clings 

The  damning  shade  of  Slavery's  curse  ? 

Go  —  let  us  ask  of  Constantine 

To  loose  his  grasp  on  Poland's  throat; 
And  beg  the  lord  of  Mahmoud's  line 

To  spare  the  struggling  Suliote,  — 
Will  not  the  scorching  answer  come 

From  turbaned  Turk  and  scornful  Russ : 
**Go,  loose  your  fettered  slaves  at  home, 

Then  turn,  and  ask  the  like  of  us ! " 


1 40  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

Just  God  !  and  shall  we  calmly  rest. 

The  Christian's  scorn, —  the  heathen's  mirth. 
Content  to  live  the  lingering  jest 

And  byword  of  a  mocking  Earth  ? 
Shall  our  own  glorious  land  retain 

That  curse  which  Europe  scorns  to  bear? 
Shall  our  own  brethren  drag  the  chain 

Which  not  even  Russia's  menials  wear? 

Up,  then,  in  Freedom's  manly  part, 

From  graybeard  eld  to  fiery  youth, 
And  on  the  nation's  naked  heart 

Scatter  the  living  coals  of  Truth  ! 
Up,  —  while  ye  slumber,  deeper  yet 

The  shadow  of  our  lame  is  growing! 
Up,  —  while  ye  pause,  our  sun  may  set 

In  blood,  around  our  altars  flowing ! 

Oh  !  rouse  ye,  ere  the  storm  comes  forth, — • 

The  gathered  wrath  of  God  and  man,  — 
Like  that  which  wasted  Egypt's  earth, 

When  hail  and  fire  above  it  ran. 
Hear  ye  no  warnings  in  the  air? 

Feel  ye  no  earthquake  underneath  ? 
Up,  —  up  !  why  will  ye  slumber  where 

The  sleeper  only  wakes  in  death  ? 

Up  now  for  Freedom  !  — not  in  strife 

Like  that  your  sterner  fathers  saw,  — 
The  awful  waste  of  human  life,  — 

The  glory  and  the  guilt  of  war  : 
But  break  the  chain,  —  the  yoke  remove, 

And  smite  to  earth  Oppression's  rod, 
With  those  mild  arms  of  Truth  and  Love, 

Made  mighty  through  the  living  God  ! 


THE   YANKEE   GIRL. 

Down  let  the  shrine  of  Moloch  sink, 

And  leave  no  traces  where  it  stood  ; 
Nor  longer  let  its  idol  drink 

His  daily  cup  of  human  blood  ; 
But  rear  another  altar  there, 

To  Truth  and  Love  and  Mercy  given, 
And  Freedom's  gift,  and  Freedom's  prayer, 

Shall  call  an  answer  down  from  Heaven! 


THE    YANKEE    GIRL. 

SHE  sings  by  her  wheel  at  that  low  cottage-door, 
Which  the  long  evening  shadow  is  stretching  be 
fore, 

With  a  music  as  sweet  as  the  music  which  seems 
Breathed  softly  and  faint  in  the  ear  of  our  dreams  ! 

How  brilliant  and  mirthful  the  light  of  her  eye, 
Like  a  star  glancing  out  from  the  blue  of  the  sky  ! 
And  lightly  and  freely  her  dark  tresses  play 
O'er  a  brow  and  a  bosom  as  lovely  as  they  ! 

Who  comes  in  his  pride  to  that  low  cottage-door,  — 
The  haughty  and  rich  to  the  humble  and  poor  ? 
'T  is  the  great  Southern  planter,  —  the  master  who  waves 
His  whip  of  dominion  o'er  hundreds  of  slaves. 

"  Nay,  Ellen,  —  for  shame  !    Let  those  Yankee  fools  spin, 
Who  would  pass  for  our  slaves  with  a  change  of  their 

skin  ; 

Let  them  toil  as  they  will  at  the  loom  or  the  wheel, 
Too  stupid  for  shame,  and  too  vulgar  to  feel ! 


142  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

"  But  thou  art  too  lovely  and  precious  a  gem 
To  be  bound  to  their  burdens  and  sullied  by  them,  — • 
For  shame,  Ellen,  shame,  —  cast  thy  bondage  aside, 
And  away  to  the  South,  as  my  blessing  and  pride. 

"  O,  come  where  no  winter  thy  footsteps  can  wrong, 
But  where  flowers  are  blossoming  all  the  year  long, 
Where  the  shade  of  the  palm-tree  is  over  my  home, 
And  the  lemon  and  orange  are  white  in  their  bloom ! 

"  O,  come  to  my  home,  where  my  servants  shall  all 
Depart  at  thy  bidding  and  come  at  thy  call  ; 
They  shall  heed  thee  as  mistress  with  trembling  and  awe, 
And  each  wish  of  thy  heart  shall  be  felt  as  a  law." 

O,  could  ye  have  seen  her  —  that  pride  of  our  girls  — 
Arise  and  cast  back  the  dark  wealth  of  her  curls, 
With  a  scorn  in  her  eye  which  the  gazer  could  feel, 
And  a  glance  like  the  sunshine  that  flashes  on  steel ! 

"  Go  back,  haughty  Southron  !  thy  treasures  of  gold 
Are  dim  with  the  blood  of  the  hearts  thou  hast  sold  ; 
Thy  home  may  be  lovely,  but  round  it  I  hear 
The  crack  of  the  whip  and  the  footsteps  of  fear  ! 

"  And  the  sky  of  thy  South  may  be  brighter  than  ours, 
And  greener  thy  landscapes,  and  fairer  thy  flowers  ; 
But  dearer  the  blast  round  our  mountains  which  raves, 
Than  the  sweet  summer  zephyr  which  breathes  over 
slaves  ! 

"  Full  low  at  thy  bidding  thy  negroes  may  kneel, 
With  the  iron  of  bondage  on  spirit  and  heel ; 
Yet  know  that  the  Yankee  girl  sooner  would  be 
In  fetters  with  them,  than  in  freedom  with  thee ! " 


TO    W.  L.  G.  143 


TO    W.    L.    G. 

/""CHAMPION  of  those  who  groan  beneath. 

^^     Oppression's  iron  hand  : 

In  view  of  penury,  hate,  and  death, 

I  see  thee  fearless  stand. 
Still  bearing  up  thy  lofty  brow, 

In  the  steadfast  strength  of  truth, 
In  manhood  sealing  well  the  vow 

And  promise  of  thy  youth. 

Go  on,  —  for  thou  hast  chosen  well ; 

On  in  the  strength  of  God  ! 
Long  as  one  human  heart  shall  swell 

Beneath  the  tyrant's  rod. 
Speak  in  a  slumbering  nation's  ear, 

As  thou  hast  ever  spoken, 
Until  the  dead  in  sin  shall  hear,  — 

The  fetter's  link  be  broken  ! 

I  love  thee  with  a  brother's  love, 

I  feel  my  pulses  thrill, 
To  mark  thy  spirit  soar  above 

The  cloud  of  human  ill. 
My  heart  hath  leaped  to  answer  thine, 

And  echo  back  thy  words, 
As  leaps  the  warrior's  at  the  shine 

And  flash  of  kindred  swords  ! 

They  tell  me  thou  art  rash  and  vain  — 
A  searcher  after  fame  ; 


I44  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

That  thou  art  striving  but  to  gain 

A  long-enduring  name  ; 
That  thou  hast  nerved  the  Afric's  hand 

And  steeled  the  Afric's  heart, 
To  shake  aloft  his  vengeful  brand, 

And  rend  his  chain  apart. 

Have  I  not  known  thee  well,  and  read 

Thy  mighty  purpose  long  ? 
And  watched  the  trials  which  have  made 

Thy  human  spirit  strong  ? 
And  shall  the  slanderer's  demon  breath 

Avail  with  one  like  me, 
To  dim  the  sunshine  of  my  faith 

And  earnest  trust  in  thee  ? 

Go  on,  —  the  dagger's  point  may  glare 

Amid  thy  pathway's  gloom,  — 
The  fate  which  sternly  threatens  there 

Is  glorious  martyrdom  ! 
Then  onward  with  a  martyr's  zeal  ; 

And  wait  thy  sure  reward 
When  man  to  man  no  more  shall  kneeL 

And  God  alone  be  Lord  ! 
1833. 


SONG    OF    THE    FREE. 

PRIDE  of  New  England! 
Soul  of  our  fathers  ! 
Shrink  we  all  craven-like, 

When  the  storm  gathers  ? 
What  though  the  tempest  be 
Over  us  lowering, 


THE  SONG   OF   THE  FREE.  145 

Where  's  the  New-Englander 

Shamefully  cowering  ? 
Graves  green  and  holy 

Around  us  are  lying,  — 
Free  were  the  sleepers  all, 

Living  and  dying  ! 

Back  with  the  Southerner's 

Padlocks  and  scourges 
Go,  —  let  him  fetter  down 

Ocean's  free  surges  !' 
Go,  —  let  him  silence 

Winds,  clouds,  and  waters,  — 
Never  New  England's  own 

Free  sons  and  daughters  \ 
Free  as  our  rivers  are 

Oceanward  going,  — 
Free  as  the  breezes  are 

Over  us  blowing. 

Up  to  our  altars,  then, 

Haste  we,  and  summon 
Courage  and  loveliness, 

Manhood  and  woman  ! 
Deep  let  our  pledges  be  : 

Freedom  forever ! 
Truce  with  oppression, 

Never,  oh  !  never  ! 
By  our  own  birthright-gift, 

Granted  of  Heaven,  — 
Freedom  for  heart  and  lip, 

Be  the  pledge  given  ! 
If  we  have  whispered  truth, 

Whisper  no  longer  ; 


146  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

Speak  as  the  tempest  does, 

Sterner  and  stronger ; 
Still  be  the  tones  of  truth 

Louder  and  firmer, 
Startling  the  haughty  South 

With  the  deep  murmur  ; 
God  and  our  charter's  right, 

Freedom  forever ! 
Truce  with  oppression, 

Never,  oh  !  never  ! 
1836. 


THE    HUNTERS    OF    MEN. 

HAVE  ye  heard  of  our  hunting,  o'er  mountain  and 
glen, 

Through  cane-brake  and  forest,  —  the  hunting  of  men  ? 
The  lords  of  our  land  to  this  hunting  have  gone, 
As  the  fox-hunter  follows  the  sound  of  the  horn  ; 
Hark  !  —  the  cheer  and  the  hallo  !  —  the  crack  of  the 

whip, 

And  the  yell  of  the  hound  as  he  fastens  his  grip  ! 
All  blithe  are  our  hunters,  and  noble  their  match,  — 
Though  hundreds  are  caught,  there  are  millions  to  catch. 
So  speed  to  their  hunting,  o'er  mountain  and  glen, 
Through  cane-brake  and  forest,  —  the  hunting  of  men  ! 

Gay  luck  to  our  hunters  !  —  how  nobly  they  ride 

In  the  glow  of  their  zeal,  and  the  strength  of  their 

pride  !  — 

The  priest  with  his  cassock  flung  back  on  the  wind. 
Just  screening  the  politic  statesman  behind,  — 


THE  HUNTERS  OF  MEM  147 

The  saint  and  the  sinner,  with  cursing  and  prayer,  — 
The  drunk  and  the  sober,  ride  merrily  there. 
And  woman,  —  kind  woman,  —  wife,  widow,  and  maid, 
For  the  good  of  the  hunted,  is  lending  her  aid  : 
Her  foot 's  in  the  stirrup,  her  hand  on  the  rein, 
How  blithely  she  rides  to  the  hunting  of  men ! 

O,  goodly  and  grand  is  our  hunting  to  see, 

In  this  "land  of  the  brave  and  this  home  of  the  free." 

Priest,  warrior,  and  statesman,  from  Georgia  to  Maine, 

All  mounting  the  saddle,  all  grasping  the  rein, 

Right  merrily  hunting  the  black  man,  whose  sin 

Is  the  curl  of  his  hair  and  the  hue  of  his  skin  ! 

Woe,  now,  to  the  hunted  who  turns  him  at  bay  ! 

Will  our  hunters  be  turned  from   their  purpose  and 

prey  ? 
Will   their  hearts   fail   within    them  ?  —  their   nerves 

tremble,  when 
All  roughly  they  ride  to  the  hunting  of  men  ? 

Ho  !  —  ALMS  for  our  hunters  !  all  weary  and  faint, 
Wax  the  curse  of  the  sinner  and  prayer  of  the  saint. 
The  horn  is  wound  faintly,  —  the  echoes  are  still, 
Over  cane-brake  and  river,  and  forest  and  hill. 
Haste,  —  alms  for  our  hunters  !  the  hunted  once  more 
Have  turned  from  their  flight  with  their  backs  to  the 

shore : 

What  right  have  they  here  in  the  home  of  the  white, 
Shadowed  o'er  by   our  banner  of  Freedom  and  Right  ? 
Ho  !  — alms  for  the  hunters  !  or  never  again 
Will  they  ride  in  their  pomp  to  the  hunting  of  men  ! 

ALMS,  —  ALMS  for  our  hunters  !  why  will  ye  delay, 
When  their  pride  and  their  glory  are  melting  away  ? 


148  I'OICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

The  parson  has  turned  ;  for,  on  charge  of  his  own, 
Who  goeth  a  warfare,  or  hunting,  alone  ? 
The  politic  statesman  looks  back  with  a  sigh,  — 
There    is    doubt   in   his    heart,  —  there  is   fear  in  his 

eye. 

O,  haste,  lest  that  doubting  and  fear  shall  prevail, 
And  the  head  of  his  steed  take  the  place  of  the  tail. 
O,  haste,  ere  he  leaves  us  !  for  who  will  ride  then, 
For  pleasure  or  gain,  to  the  hunting  of  men  ? 
1835- 


CLERICAL    OPPRESSORS. 

[In  the  report  of  the  celebrated  proslavery  meeting  in  Charleston,  S.  C., 
on  the  4th  of  the  gth  month,  1835,  published  in  the  Courier  of  that  city,  it 
is  stated,  "  The  CLERGY  of  all  denominations  attended  in  a  body, 
LENDING  THEIR  SANCTION  TO  THE  PROCEEDINGS,  and  adding  by  their 
presence  to  the  impressive  character  of  the  scene  !  "] 

JUST  God  !  —  and  these  are  they 
Who  minister  at  thine  altar,  God  of  Right! 
Men  who  their  hands  with  prayer  and  blessing  lay 
On  Israel'b  Ark  of  light  ! 

What !  preach  and  kidnap  men  ? 
Give  thanks, —  and  rob  thy  own  afflicted  poor  ? 
Talk  of  thy  glorious  liberty,  and  then 

Bolt  hard  the  captive's  door  ? 

What !  servants  of  thy  own 
Merciful  Son,  who  came  to  seek  and  save 
The  homeless  and  the  outcast,  —  fettering  down 

The  tasked  and  plundered  slave  I 


CLERICAL    OPPRESSORS.  149 

Pilate  and  Herod  friends  ! 
Chief  priests  and  rulers,  as  of  old,  combine ! 
Just  God  and  holy  !  is  that  church,  which  lends 

Strength  to  the  spoiler,  thine  ? 

Paid  hypocrites,  who  turn 
Judgment  aside,  and  rob  the  Holy  Book 
Of  those  high  words  of  truth  which  search  and  burn 

In  warning  and  rebuke  ; 

Feed  fat,  ye  locusts,  feed  ! 
And  in  your  tasselled  pulpits,  thank  the  Lord 
That,  from  the  toiling  bondman's  utter  need, 

Ye  pile  your  own  full  board. 

How  long,  O  Lord  !  how  long 
Shall  such  a  priesthood  barter  truth  away, 
And  in  thy  name,  for  robbery  and  wrong 

At  thy  own  altars  pray  ? 

Is  not  thy  hand  stretched  forth 
Visibly  in  the  heavens,  to  awe  and  smite  ? 
Shall  not  the  living  God  of  all  the  earth, 

And  heaven  above  do  right  ? 

Woe,  then,  to  all  who  grind 
Their  brethren  of  a  common  Father  down  ! 
To  all  who  plunder  from  the  immortal  mind 

Its  bright  and  glorious  crown  ! 

Woe  to  the  priesthood  !   woe 
To  those  whose  hire  is  with  the  price  of  blood, — 
Perverting,  darkening,  changing,  as  they  go, 

The  searching  truths  of  God  I 


I So  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

Their  glory  and  their  might 
Shall  perish  ;  and  their  very  names  shall  be 
Vile  before  all  the  people,  in  the  light 

Of  a  world's  liberty. 

O,  speed  the  moment  on 

When  Wrong  shall  cease,  and  Liberty  and  Love 
And  Truth  and  Right  throughout  the  earth  be  known 

As  in  their  home  above. 


THE    CHRISTIAN    SLAVE 

[In  a  late  publication  of  L.  F.  Tasistro,  —  "  Random  Shots  and  South- 
ern  Breezes," — is  a  description  of  a  slave  auction  at  New  Orleans,  at 
which  the  auctioneer  recommended  the  woman  on  the  stand  as  "  A  GOOD 
CHRISTIAN  1 "] 

A  CHRISTIAN  !  going,  gone  ! 
Who  bids  for  God's  own  image  ?  —  for  his  gracer 
Which  that  poor  victim  of  the  market-place 
Hath  in  her  suffering  won  ? 

My  God !  can  such  things  be  ? 
Hast  thou  not  said  that  whatsoe'er  is  done 
Unto  thy  weakest  and  thy  humblest  one 

Is  even  done  to  thee  ? 

In  that  sad  victim,  then, 
Child  of  thy  pitying  love,  I  see  thee  stand,  — 
Once  more  the  jest-word  of  a  mocking  band. 

Bound,  sold,  and  scourged  again  1 


THE   CHRISTIAN  SLAVE.  15 j 

A  Christian  up  for  sale  ! 

Wet  with  her  blood  your  whips,  o'ertask  her  frame, 
Make  her  life  loathsome  with  your  wrong  and  shame, 

Her  patience  shall  not  fail ! 

A  heathen  hand  might  deal 

Back  on  your  heads  the  gathered  wrong  of  years  : 
But  her  low,  broken  prayer  and  nightly  tears, 

Ye  neither  heed  nor  feel. 

Con  well  thy  lesson  o'er, 
Thou  prudent  teacher,  —  tell  the  toiling  slave 
No  dangerous  tale  of  Him  who  came  to  save 

The  outcast  and  the  poor. 

But  wisely  shut  the  ray 
Of  God's  free  Gospel  from  her  simple  heart, 
And  to  her  darkened  mind  alone  impart 

One  stern  command,  —  OBEY  ! 

So  shalt  thou  deftly  raise 
The  market  price  of  human  flesh  ;  and  while 
On  thee,  their  pampered  guest,  the  planters  smile, 

The  church  shall  praise. 

Grave,  reverend  men  shall  tell 
From  Northern  pulpits  how  thy  work  was  blest, 
While  in  that  vile  South  Sodom,  first  and  best, 

Thy  poor  disciples  sell. 

O,  shame  !  the  Moslem  thrall, 
Who,  with  his  master,  to  the  Prophet  kneels, 
While  turning  to  the  sacred  Kebla  feels 

His  fetters  break  and  fall. 


I52  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

Cheers  for  the  turbaned  Bey 
Of  robber-peopled  Tunis  !  he  hath  torn 
The  dark  slave-dungeons  open,  and  hath  borne 

Their  inmates  into  day  ; 

But  our  poor  slave  in  vain 

Turns  to  the  Christian  shrine  his  aching  eyes,  — 
Its  rites  will  only  swell  his  market  price, 

And  rivet  on  his  chain. 

God  of  all  right !  how  long 
Shall  priestly  robbers  at  thine  altar  stand, 
Lifting  in  prayer  to  thee  the  bloody  hand 

And  haughty  brow  of  wrong  ? 

O,  from  the  fields  of  cane, 

From  the  low  rice-swamp,  from  the  trader's  cell,  — 
From  the  black  slave-ship's  foul  and  loathsome  hell, 

And  cofBe's  weary  chain,  — 

Hoarse,  horrible,  and  strong, 
Rises  to  Heaven  that  agonizing  cry, 
Filling  the  arches  of  the  hollow  sky, 

HOW  LONG,  O  GOD,  HOW  LONG  ? 


STANZAS    FOR    THE    TIMES. 

IS  this  the  land  our  fathers  loved, 
The  freedom  which  they  toiled  to  win  ? 
Is  this  the  soil  whereon  they  moved  ? 

Are  these  the  graves  they  slumber  in  ? 
Are  we  the  sons  by  whom  are  borne 
The  mantles  which  the  dead  have  worn  ? 


STANZAS  FOR    THE    TIMES.  153 

And  shall  we  crouch  above  these  graves, 

With  craven  soul  and  fettered  lip  ? 
Yoke  in  with  marked  and  branded  slaves, 

And  tremble  at  the  driver's  whip  ? 
Bend  to  the  earth  our  pliant  knees, 
And  speak  —  but  as  our  masters  please  ? 

Shall  outraged  Nature  cease  to  feel  ? 

Shall  Mercy's  tears  no  longer  flow  ? 
Shall  ruffian  threats  of  cord  and  steel,  — 

The  dungeon's  gloom,  —  the  assassin's  blow, 
Turn  back  the  spirit  roused  to  save 
The  Truth,  our  Country,  and  the  Slave  ? 

Of  human  skulls  that  shrine  was  made, 

Round  which  the  priests  of  Mexico 
Before  their  loathsome  idol  prayed  ;  — 

Is  Freedom's  altar  fashioned  so  ? 
And  must  we  yield  to  Freedom's  God, 
As  offering  meet,  the  negro's  blood  ? 

Shall  tongues  be  mute,  when  deeds  are  wrought 
Which  well  might  shame  extremest  hell  ? 

Shall  freemen  lock  the  indignant  thought  ? 
Shall  Pity's  bosom  cease  to  swell  ? 

Shall  Honor  bleed  ?  —  shall  Truth  succumb  ? 

Shall  pen,  and  press,  and  soul  be  dumb  ? 

No  ;  — by  each  spot  of  haunted  ground, 
Where  Freedom  weeps  her  children's  fall,  — 

By  Plymouth's  rock,  and  Bunker's  mound,  — 
By  Griswold's  stained  and  shattered  wall, — 

By  Warren's  ghost,  —  by  Langdon's  shade,  — 

By  all  the  memories  of  our  dead  ! 

7* 


154  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

By  their  enlarging  souls,  which  burst 

The  bands  and  fetters  round  them  set,  — 

By  the  free  Pilgrim  spirit  nursed 
Within  our  inmost  bosoms,  yet,  — 

By  all  above,  around,  below, 

Be  ours  the  indignant  answer,  —  NO  ! 

No  ;  —  guided  by  our  country's  laws, 
For  truth,  and  right,  and  suffering  man, 

Be  ours  to  strive  in  Freedom's  cause, 
As  Christians  may,  —  as  freemen  can  / 

Still  pouring  on  unwilling  ears 

That  truth  oppression  only  fears. 

What !  shall  we  guard  our  neighbor  still, 
While  woman  shrieks  beneath  his  rod, 

And  while  he  tramples  down  at  will 
The  image  of  a  common  God  ! 

Shall  watch  and  ward  be  round  him  set, 

Of  Northern  nerve  and  bayonet  ? 

And  shall  we  know  and  share  with  him 
The  danger  and  the  growing  shame  ? 

And  see  our  Freedom's  light  grow  dim, 

Which  should  have  filled  the  world  with  flame  ? 

And,  writhing,  feel,  where'er  we  turn, 

A  world's  reproach  around  us  burn  ? 

Is  't  not  enough  that  this  is  borne  ? 

And  asks  our  haughty  neighbor  more  ? 
Must  fetters  which  his  slaves  have  worn 

Clank  round  the  Yankee  farmer's  door  ? 
Must  he  be  told,  beside  his  plough, 
What  he  must  speak,  and  when,  and  how  ? 


LINES.  155 

Must  he  be  told  his  freedom  stands 

On  Slavery's  dark  foundations  strong,  — 

On  breaking  hearts  and  fettered  hands, 
On  robbery,  and  crime,  and  wrong  ? 

That  all  his  fathers  taught  is  vain,  — 

That  Freedom's  emblem  is  the  chain  ? 

Its  life,  its  soul,  from  slavery  drawn  ? 

False,  foul,  profane  !     Go,  —  teach  as  well 
Of  holy  Truth  from  Falsehood  born  ! 

Of  Heaven  refreshed  by  airs  from  Hell ! 
Of  Virtue  in  the  arms  of  Vice  ! 
Of  Demons  planting  Paradise  ! 

Rail  on,  then,  "  brethren  of  the  South,"  — 
Ye  shall  not  hear  the  truth  the  less  ;  — 

No  seal  is  on  the  Yankee's  mouth, 
No  fetter  on  the  Yankee's  press  ! 

From  our  Green  Mountains  to  the  sea, 

One  voice  shall  thunder,  —  WE  ARE  FREE  ! 


LINES, 

WRITTEN   ON   READING   THE   MESSAGE   OF  GOVERNOR 
RITNER,    OF    PENNSYLVANIA,    1836. 


God  for  the  token  !—  one  lip  is  still  free,^ 
One  spirit  untrammelled,  —  unbending  one  knee  ! 
Like  the  oak  of  the  mountain,  deep-rooted  and  firm, 
Erect,  when  the  multitude  bends  to  the  storm  ; 
When  traitors  to  Freedom,  and  Honor,  and  God, 
Are  bowed  at  an  Idol  polluted  with  blood  ; 


J56  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

When  the  recreant  North  has  forgotten  her  trust, 
And  the  lip  of  her  honor  is  low  in  the  dust,  — . 
Thank  God,  that  one  arm  from  the  shackle  has  broken ! 
Thank  God  that  one  man  as  a  free-man  has  spoken  ! 

O'er  thy  crags,  Alleghany,  a  blast  has  been  blown  I 
Down  thy  side,  Susquehanna,  the  murmur  has  gone  ! 
To  the  land  of  the  South,  —  of  the  charter  and  chain,  — 
Of  Liberty  sweetened  with  Slavery's  pain  ; 
Where  the  cant  of  Democracy  dwells  on  the  lips 
Of  the  forgers  of  fetters  and  wielders  of  whips ! 
Where  "  chivalric  "  honor  means  really  no  more 
Than  scourging  of  women  and  robbing  the  poor ! 
Where  the  Moloch  of  Slavery  sitteth  on  high, 
And  the  words  which  he  utters  are  —  WORSHIP,  OR  DIE ! 


Right  onward,  O  speed  it !     Wherever  the  blood 

Of  the  wronged  and  the  guiltless  is  crying  to  God ; 

Wherever  a  slave  in  his  fetters  is  pining  ; 

Wherever  the  lash  of  the  driver  is  twining  ; 

Wherever  from  kindred,  torn  rudely  apart, 

Comes  the  sorrowful  wail  of  the  broken  of  heart ; 

Wherever  the  shackles  of  tyranny  bind, 

In  silence  and  darkness,  the  God-given  mind  ; 

There,  God  speed  it  onward  !  —  its  truth  will  be  felt,  — 

The  bonds  shall  be  loosened,  —  the  iron  shall  melt ! 

And  O,  will  the  land  where  the  free  soul  of  PENN 
Still  lingers  and  breathes  over  mountain  and  glen,  — 
Will  the  land  where  BENEZET'S  spirit  went  forth 
To  the  peeled,  and  the  meted,  and  outcast  of  Earth,  — 
Where  the  words  of  the  Charter  of  Liberty  first 
From  the  soul  of  the  sage  and  the  patriot  burst,  — 


LINES. 


157 


Where  first  for  the  wronged  and  the  weak  of  their  kind, 
The  Christian  and  statesman  their  efforts  combined,  — 
Will  that  land  of  the  free  and  the  good  wear  a  chain  ? 
Will  the  call  to  the  rescue  of  Freedom  be  vain  ? 

No,  RITNER!  — her  "Friends"  at  thy  warning  shall 

stand 

Erect  for  the  truth,  like  their  ancestral  band  ; 
Forgetting  the  feuds  and  the  strife  of  past  time, 
Counting  coldness  injustice,  and  silence  a  crime  ; 
Turning  back  from  the  cavil  of  creeds,  to  unite 
Once  again  for  the  poor  in  defence  of  the  Right ; 
Breasting  calmly,  but  firmly,  the  full  tide  of  Wrong, 
Overwhelmed,  but  not  borne  on  .its  surges  along ; 
Unappalled  by  the  danger,  the  shame,  and  the  pain, 
And  counting  each  trial  for  Truth  as  their  gain  ? 

And  that  bold-hearted  yeomanry,  honest  and  true, 
Who,  haters  of  fraud,  give  to  labor  its  due  ; 
Whose  fathers,  of  old,  sang  in  concert  with  thine, 
On  the  banks  of  Swetara,  the  songs  of  the  Rhine,  — 
The  German-born  pilgrims,  who  first  dared  to  brave 
The  scorn  of  the  proud  in  the  cause  of  the  slave  :  — 
Will  the  sons  of  such  men  yield  the  lords  of  the  South 
One  brow  for  the  brand,  —  for  the  padlock  one  mouth  ? 
They  cater  to  tyrants  ?  —  They  rivet  the  chain, 
Which  their  fathers  smote  off,  on  the  negro  again  ? 

No,  never !  —  one  voice,  like  the  sound  in  the  cloud, 
When  the  roar  of  the  storm  waxes  loud  and  more  loud, 
Wherever  the  foot  of  the  freeman  hath  pressed 
From  the  Delaware's  marge  to  the  Lake  of  the  West, 
On  the  South-going  breezes  shall  deepen  and  grow 
Till  the  land  it  sweeps  over  shall  tremble  below  ! 


158  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

The  voice  of  a  PEOPLE,  —  uprisen,  —  awake, 
Pennsylvania's  watchword  with  freedom  at  stake, 
Thrilling  up  from  each  valley,  flung  down  from  each 

height, 
"  OUR   COUNTRY  AND   LIBERTY!  — GOD   FOR   THF, 

RIGHT ! " 


THE    PASTORAL    LETTER. 

SO,  this  is  all,  —  the  utmost  reach 
Of  priestly  power  the  mind  to  fetter ! 
When  laymen  think  —  when  women  preach  — 

A  war  of  words — a  "Pastoral  Letter!" 
Now,  shame  upon  ye,  parish  Popes! 

Was  it  thus  with  those,  your  predecessors, 
Who  sealed  with  racks,  and  fire,  and  ropes 
Their  loving-kindness  to  transgressors  ? 

A  "  Pastoral  Letter,"  grave  and  dull  — 

Alas  !  in  hoof  and  horns  and  features, 
How  different  is  your  Brookfield  bull, 

From  him  who  bellows  from  St.  Peter's  ! 
Your  pastoral  rights  and  powers  from  harm, 

Think  ye,  can  words  alone  preserve  them  ? 
Your  wiser  fathers  taught  the  arm 

And  sword  of  temporal  power  to  serve  them. 

O,  glorious  days,  —  when  Church  and  State 
Were  wedded  by  your  spiritual  fathers  ! 

And  on  submissive  shoulders  sate 

Your  Wilsons  and  your  Cotton  Mathers. 

No  vile  "  itinerant"  then  could  mar 
The  beauty  of  your  tranquil  Zion 


THE  PASTORAL   LETTER. 

But  at  his  peril  of  the  scar 

Of  hangman's  whip  and  branding-iron. 

Then,  wholesome  laws  relieved  the  church 

Of  heretic  and  mischief-maker, 
And  priest  and  bailiff  joined  in  search, 

By  turns,  of  Papist,  witch,  and  Quaker! 
The  stocks  were  at  each  church's  door, 

The  gallows  stood  on  Boston  Common, 
A  Papist's  ears  the  pillory  bore,  — 

The  gallows-rope,  a  Quaker  woman  ! 

Your  fathers  dealt  not  as  ye  deal 

With  "  non-professing  "  frantic  teachers  ; 
They  bored  the  tongue  with  red-hot  steel, 

And  flayed  the  backs  of  "  female  preachers- 
Old  Newbury,  had  her  fields  a  tongue, 

And  Salem's  streets  could  tell  their  story, 
Of  fainting  woman  dragged  along, 

Gashed  by  the  whip,  accursed  and  gory ! 

And  will  ye  ask  me,  why  this  taunt 

Of  memories  sacred  from  the  scorner  ? 
And  why  with  reckless  hand  I  plant 

A  nettle  on  the  graves  ye  honor  ? 
Not  to  reproach  New  England's  dead 

This  record  from  the  past  I  summon, 
Of  manhood  to  the  scaffold  led, 

And  suffering  and  heroic  woman. 

No,  —  for  yourselves  alone  I  turn 

The  pages  of  intolerance  over, 
That,  in  their  spirit,  dark  and  stern, 

Ye  haply  may  your  own  discover  I 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

For,  if  ye  claim  the  "  pastoral  right " 
To  silence  Freedom's  voice  of  warning, 

And  from  your  precincts  shut  the  light 
Of  Freedom's  day  around  ye  dawning  ; 

If  when  an  earthquake  voice  of  power, 

And  signs  in  earth  and  heaven,  are  showing 
That  forth,  in  its  appointed  hour, 

The  Spirit  of  the  Lord  is  going  ! 
And,  with  that  Spirit,  Freedom's  light 

On  kindred,  tongue,  and  people  breaking, 
Whose  slumbering  millions,  at  the  sight, 

In  glory  and  in  strength  are  waking ! 

When  for  the  sighing  of  the  poor, 

And  for  the  needy,  God  hath  risen, 
And  chains  are  breaking,  and  a  door 

Is  opening  for  the  souls  in  prison  ! 
It  then  ye  would,  with  puny  hands, 

Arrest  the  very  work  of  Heaven, 
And  bind  anew  the  evil  bands 

Which  God's  right  arm  of  power  hath  riven,  — 

What  marvel  that,  in  many  a  mind, 

Those  darker  deeds  of  bigot  madness 
Are  closely  with  your  own  combined, 

Yet  "  less  in  anger  than  in  sadness  "  ? 
What  marvel,  if  the  people  learn 

To  claim  the  right  of  free  opinion  ? 
What  marvel,  if  at  times  they  spurn 

The  ancient  yoke  of  your  dominion  ? 

A  glorious  remnant  linger  yet, 

Whose  lips  are  wet  at  Freedom's  fountains, 


THE  PASTORAL   LETTER.  161 

The  coming  of  whose  welcome  feet 

Is  beautiful  upon  our  mountains  ? 
Men,  who  the  gospel  tidings  bring 

Of  liberty  and  love  forever, 
Whose  joy  is  an  abiding  spring, 

Whose  peace  is  as  a  gentle  river  ! 

But  ye,  who  scorn  the  thrilling  tale 

Of  Carolina's  high-souled  daughters, 
Which  echoes  here  the  mournful  wail 

Of  sorrow  from  Edisto's  waters, 
Close  while  ye  may  the  public  ear,  — 

With  malice  vex,  with  slander  wound  them,  — 
The  pure  and  good  shall  throng  to  hear, 

And  tried  and  manly  hearts  surround  them. 

O,  ever  may  the  power  which  led 

Their  way  to  such  a  fiery  trial, 
And  strengthened  womanhood  to  tread 

The  wine-press  of  such  self-denial, 
Be  round  them  in  an  evil  land, 

With  wisdom  and  with  strength  from  Heaven, 
With  Miriam's  voice,  and  Judith's  hand, 

And  Deborah's  song,  for  triumph  given  ! 

And  what  are  ye  who  strive  with  God 

Against  the  ark  of  his  salvation, 
Moved  by  the  breath  of  prayer  abroad, 

With  blessings  for  a  dying  nation  ? 
What,  but  the  stubble  and  the  hay 

To  perish,  even  as  flax  consuming, 
With  all  that  bars  his  glorious  way, 

Before  the  brightness  of  his  coming  ? 


1 62  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

And  thou,  sad  Angel,  who  so  long 

Hast  waited  for  the  glorious  token, 
That  Earth  from  all  her  bonds  of  wrong 

To  liberty  and  light  has  broken,  — 
Angel  of  Freedom  !  soon  to  thee 

The  sounding  trumpet  shall  be  given, 
And  over  Earth's  full  jubilee 

Shall  deeper  joy  be  felt  in  Heaven  ! 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  MEETING  OF  THE  ANTISLAVERY 
SOCIETY,  AT  CHATHAM  STREET  CHAPEL,  N.  Y.,  HELD 
ON  THE  4TH  OF  THE  /TH  MONTH,  1834. 

OTHOU,  whose  presence  went  before 
Our  fathers  in  their  weary  way, 
As  with  thy  chosen  moved  of  yore 
The  fire  by  night,  the  cloud  by  day ! 

When  from  each  temple  of  the  free, 
A  nation's  song  ascends  to  Heaven, 

Most  Holy  Father  !  unto  thee 

May  not  our  humble  prayer  be  given  ? 

Thy  children  all,  —  though  hue  and  form 
Are  varied  in  thine  own  good  will,  — 

With  thy  own  holy  breathings  warm, 
And  fashioned  in  thine  image  still. 

We  thank  thee,  Father !  —  hill  and  plain 
Around  us  wave  their  fruits  once  more, 

And  clustered  vine,  and  blossomed  grain, 
Are  bending  round  each  cottage  door. 


LINES.  163 

And  peace  is  here  ;  and  hope  and  love 

Are  round  us  as  a  mantle  thrown, 
And  unto  Thee,  supreme  above, 

The  knee  of  prayer  is  bowed  alone. 

But  O,  for  those  this  day  can  bring, 

As  unto  us,  no  joyful  thrill,  — 
For  those  who,  under  Freedom's  wing, 

Are  bound  in  Slavery's  fetters  still : 

For  those  to  whom  thy  living  word 
Of  light  and  love  is  never  given,  — 

For  those  whose  ears  have  never  heard 
The  promise  and  the  hope  of  Heaven ! 

For  broken  heart  and  clouded  mind, 
Whereon  no  human  mercies  fall,  — 

O,  be  thy  gracious  love  inclined, 
Who,  as  a  Father,  pitiest  all ! 

And  grant,  O  Father !  that  the  time 
Of  Earth's  deliverance  may  be  near, 

When  every  land  and  tongue  and  clime 
The  message  of  thy  love  shall  hear,  — 

When,  smitten  as  with  fire  from  heaven, 
The  captive's  chain  shall  sink  in  dust, 

And  to  his  fettered  soul  be  given 
The  glorious  freedom  of  the  just ! 


164  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  CELEBRATION  OF  THF  THIRD 
ANNIVERSARY  OF  BRITISH  EMANCIPATION  AT  THF. 
BROADWAY  TABERNACLE,  N.  Y.,  u  FIRST  OF  AUGUST,' 
1837. 

OHOLY  FATHER  !  —  just  and  true 
Are  all  thy  works  and  words  and  ways, 
And  unto  thee  alone  are  due 

Thanksgiving  and  eternal  praise  ! 
As  children  of  thy  gracious  care, 

We  veil  the  eye  we  bend  the  knee, 
With  broken  words  of  praise  and  prayer, 
Father  and  God,  we  come  to  thee. 

For  thou  hast  heard,  O  God  of  Right, 

The  sighing  of  the  island  slave  ; 
And  stretched  for  him  the  arm  of  might, 

Not  shortened  that  it  could  not  save. 
The  laborer  sits  beneath  his  vine, 

The  shackled  soul  and  hand  are  free,  — 
Thanksgiving  !  —  for  the  work  is  thine  ! 

Praise  !  —  for  the  blessing  is  of  thee ! 

And  O,  we  feel  thy  presence  here,  • — 

Thy  awful  arm  in  judgment  bare  ! 
Thine  eye  hath  seen  the  bondman's  tear,  — 

Thine  ear  hath  heard  the  bondman's  prayer. 
Praise  !  —  for  the  pride  of  man  is  low, 

The  counsels  of  the  wise  are  naught, 
The  fountains  of  repentance  flow  ; 

What  hath  our  God  in  mercy  wrought  ? 


LINES. 

Speed  on  thy  work,  Lord  God  of  Hosts  I 

And  when  the  bondman's  chain  is  riven, 
And  swells  from  all  our  guilty  coasts 

The  anthem  of  the  free  to  Heaven, 
O,  not  to  those  whom  thou  hast  led, 

As  with  thy  cloud  and  fire  before, 
But  unto  thee,  in  fear  and  dread, 

Be  praise  and  glory  evermore. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE    ANNIVERSARY    CELEBRATION    OF 
THE   FIRST   OF  AUGUST,   AT  MILTON,    1846. 

A    FEW  brief  years  have  passed  away 
^~*     Since  Britain  drove  her  million  slaves 
Beneath  the  tropic's  fiery  ray  : 
God  willed  their  freedom  ;  and  to-day 
Life  blooms  above  those  island  graves  ! 

He  spoke  !  across  the  Carib  Sea 
We  heard  the  clash  of  breaking  chains, 

And  felt  the  heart-throb  of  the  free, 

The  first,  strong  pulse  of  liberty 

Which  thrilled  along  the  bondman's  veins. 

Though  long  delayed,  and  far,  and  slow, 

The  Briton's  triumph  shall  be  ours  : 
Wears  slavery  here  a  prouder  brow 
Than  that  which  twelve  short  years  ago 
Scowled  darkly  from  her  island  bowers  ? 


!66  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

Mighty  alike  for  good  or  ill 

With  mother-land,  we  fully  share 

The  Saxon  strength,  —  the  nerve  of  steel,  — 

The  tireless  energy  of  will,  — 

The  power  to  do,  the  pride  to  dare. 

What  she  has  done  can  we  not  do  ? 

Our  hour  and  men  are  both  at  hand  ; 
The  blast  which  Freedom's  angel  blew 
O'er  her  green  islands,  echoes  through 

Each  valley  of  our  forest  land. 

Hear  it,  old  Europe !  we  have  sworn 

The  death  of  slavery.  —  When  it  falls, 
Look  to  your  vassals  in  their  turn, 
Your  poor  dumb  millions,  crushed  and  worn, 
Your  prisons  and  your  palace  walls  ! 

O  kingly  mockers  !  —  scoffing  show 

What  deeds  in  Freedom's  name  we  do  ; 
Yet  know  that  every  taunt  ye  throw 
Across  the  waters,  goads  our  slow 

Progression  towards  the  right  and  true. 

Not  always  shall  your  outraged  poor, 

Appalled  by  democratic  crime, 
Grind  as  their  fathers  ground  before,  — 
The  hour  which  sees  our  prison  door 
Swing  wide  shall  be  their  triumph  time. 

On  then,  my  brothers  !  every  blow 

Ye  deal  is  felt  the  wide  earth  through  ; 
Whatever  here  uplifts  the  low 
Or  humbles  Freedom's  hateful  foe, 
Blesses  the  Old  World  through  the  New. 


THE  FAREWELL.  167 

Take  heart !    The  promised  hour  draws  near,  — 
I  hear  the  downward  beat  of  wings, 

And  Freedom's  trumpet  sounding  clear  : 

"  Joy  to  the  people  !  —  woe  and  fear 
To  new-world  tyrants,  old-world  kings  !  " 


THE    FAREWELL 

OF    A   VIRGINIA    SLAVE    MOTHER    TO    HER    DAUGHTERS 
SOLD    INTO    SOUTHERN   BONDAGE. 

GONE,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 

Where  the  slave-whip  ceaseless  swings, 

Where  the  noisome  insect  stings, 

Where  the  fever  demon  strews 

Poison  with  the  falling  dews, 

Where  the  sickly  sunbeams  glare 

Through  the  hot  and  misty  air,  — 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
There  no  mother's  eye  is  near  them, 
There  no  mother's  ear  can  hear  them  ; 
Never,  when  the  torturing  lash 
Seams  their  back  with  many  a  gash, 
Shall  a  mother's  kindness  bless  them, 
Or  a  mother's  arms  caress  them. 


r68  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone. 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
O,  when  weary,  sad,  and  slow, 
From  the  fields  at  night  they  go, 
Faint  with  toil,  and  racked  with  pain, 
To  their  cheerless  homes  again, 
There  no  brother's  voice  shall  greet  them,  — 
There  no  father's  welcome  meet  them. 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — • 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  the  tree  whose  shadow  lay 
On  their  childhood's  place  of  play,  — 
From  the  cool  spring  where  they  drank, — 
Rock,  and  hill,  and  rivulet  bank,  — 
From  the  solemn  house  of  prayer, 
And  the  holy  counsels  there, — 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, — 

Toiling  through  the  weary  day, 

And  at  night  the  spoiler's  prey0 


THE  MORAL    WARFARE.  169 

O  that  they  had  earlier  died, 

Sleeping  calmly,  side  by  side, 

Where  the  tyrant's  power  is  o'er, 

And  the  fetter  galls  no  more  ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters ! 


Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
By  the  holy  love  He  beareth,  — 
By  the  bruised  reed  He  spareth,  — 
O,  may  He,  to  whom  alone 
All  their  cruel  wrongs  are  known, 
Still  their  hope  and  refuge  prove, 
With  a  more  than  mother's  love. 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters,  — -- 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 


THE    MORAL    WARFARE. 


WHEN  Freedom,  on  her  natal  day, 
Within  her  war-rocked  cradle  lay, 
An  iron  race  around  her  stood, 
Baptized  her  infant  brow  in  blood  ; 
And,  through  the  storm  which  round  her  swept, 
Their  constant  ward  and  watching  kept. 


I yo  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

Then,  where  our  quiet  herds  repose, 
The  roar  of  baleful  battle  rose, 
And  brethren  of  a  common  tongue 
To  mortal  strife  as  tigers  sprung, 
And  every  gift  on  Freedom's  shrine 
Was  man  for  beast,  and  blood  for  wine  ! 

Our  fathers  to  their  graves  have  gone  ; 
Their  strife  is  past,  —  their  triumph  won  ; 
But  sterner  trials  wait  the  race 
Which  rises  in  their  honored  place,  — 
A  moral  warfare  with  the  crime 
And  folly  of  an  evil  time. 

So  let  it  be.     In  God's  own  might 

We  gird  us  for  the  coming  fight. 

And,  strong  in  Him  whose  cause  is  ours 

In  conflict  with  unholy  powers, 

We  grasp  the  weapons  He  has  given,  — 

The  Light,  and  Truth,  and  Love  of  Heaven. 


THE    WORLD'S    CONVENTION 

OF  THE  FRIENDS   OF  EMANCIPATION,  HELD  IN  LONDON 
IN   1840. 

YES,  let  them  gather  !  —  Summon  forth 
The  pledged  philanthropy  of  Earth, 
From  every  land,  whose  hills  have  heard 
The  bugle-blast  of  Freedom  waking  ; 
Or  shrieking  of  her  symbol-bird 

From  out  his  cloudy  eyrie  breaking: 


THE    WORLD'S  CONVENTION.  171 

Where  Justice  hath  one  worshipper, 
Or  Truth  one  altar  built  to  her  ; 
Where'er  a  human  eye  is  weeping 

O'er  wrongs  which  Earth's  sad  children  know, — 
Where'er  a  single  heart  is  keeping 

Its  prayerful  watch  with  human  woe  : 
Thence  let  them  come,  and  greet  each  other, 
And  know  in  each  a  friend  and  brother ! 

Yes,  let  them  come  !  from  each  green  vale 

Where  England's  old  baronial  halls 

Still  bear  upon  their  storied  walls 
The  grim  Crusader's  rusted  mail, 
Battered  by  Paynim  spear  and  brand 
On  Malta's  rock  or  Syria's  sand  ! 
And  mouldering  pennon-staves  once  set 

Within  the  soil  of  Palestine, 
By  Jordan  and  Genessaret ; 

Or,  borne  with  England's  battle  line, 
O'er  Acre's  shattered  turrets  stooping, 
Or,  midst  the  camp  their  banners  drooping, 

With  dews  from  hallowed  Hermon  wet, 
A  holier  summons  now  is  given 

Than  that  gray  hermit's  voice  of  old, 
Which  unto  all  the  winds  of  heaven 

The  banners  of  the  Cross  unrolled  ! 
Not  for  the  long-deserted  shrine,  — 

Not  for  the  dull  unconscious  sod, 
Which  tells  not  by  one  lingering  sign 

That  there  the  hope  of  Israel  trod ;  — 
But  for  that  TRUTH,  for  which  alone 

In  pilgrim  eyes  are  sanctified 
The  garden  moss,  the  mountain  stone, 
Whereon  his  holy  sandals  pressed,  — 


Ty2  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM, 

The  fountain  which  his  lip  hath  blessed,  — 
Whate'er  hath  touched  his  garment's  hem 
At  Bethany  or  Bethlehem, 

Or  Jordan's  river-side. 
For  FREEDOM,  in  the  name  of  Him 

Who  came  to  raise  Earth's  drooping  poor, 
To  break  the  chain  from  every  limb, 

The  bolt  from  every  prison  door  ! 
For  these,  o'er  all  the  earth  hath  passed 
An  ever-deepening  trumpet-blast, 
As  if  an  angel's  breath  had  lent 
Its  vigor  to  the  instrument. 

And  Wales,  from  Snowden's  mountain  wall, 
Shall  startle  at  that  thrilling  call, 

As  if  she  heard  her  bards  again  ; 
And  Erin's  "  harp  on  Tara's  wall " 

Give  out  its  ancient  strain, 
Mirthful  and  sweet,  yet  sad  withal,  — 

The  melody  which  Erin  loves, 
When  o'er  that  harp,  'mid  bursts  of  gladness 
And  slogan  cries  and  lyke-wake  sadness, 

The  hand  of  her  O'Connell  moves  ! 
Scotland,  from  lake  and  tarn  and  rill, 
And  mountain  hold,  and  heathery  hill, 

Shall  catch  and  echo  back  the  note, 
As  if  she  heard  upon  her  air 
Once  more  her  Cameronian's  prayer 

And  song  of  Freedom  float. 
And  cheering  echoes  shall  reply 
From  each  remote  dependency, 
Where  Britain's  mighty  sway  is  known, 
In  tropic  sea  or  frozen  zone  ; 
Where'er  her  sunset  flag  is  furling, 


THE    WORLD'S  CONVENTION. 

Or  morning  gun-fire's  smoke  is  curling ; 
From  Indian  Bengal's  groves  of  palm 
And  rosy  fields  and  gales  of  balm, 
Where  Eastern  pomp  and  power  are  rolled 
Through  regal  Ava's  gates  of  gold  ; 
And  from  the  lakes  and  ancient  woods 
And  dim  Canadian  solitudes, 
Whence,  sternly  from  her  rocky  throne, 
Queen  of  the  North,  Quebec  looks  down ; 
And  from  those  bright  and  ransomed  Isles 
Where  all  unwonted  Freedom  smiles, 
And  the  dark  laborer  still  retains 
The  scar  of  slavery's  broken  chains  ! 

From  the  hoar  Alps,  which  sentinel 
The  gateways  of  the  land  of  Tell, 
Where  morning's  keen  and  earliest  glance 

On  Jura's  rocky  wall  is  thrown, 
And  from  the  olive  bowers  of  France 

And  vine  groves  garlanding  the  Rhone,  - 
"  Friends  of  the  Blacks,"  as  true  and  tried 
As  those  who  stood  by  Oge's  side, 
And  heard  the  Haytien's  tale  of  wrong, 
Shall  gather  'at  that  summons  strong,  — 
Broglie,  Passy,  and  him  whose  song 
Breathed  over  Syria's  holy  sod, 
And  in  the  paths  which  Jesus  trod, 
And  murmured  midst  the  hills  which  hem 
Crownless  and  sad  Jerusalem, 
Hath  echoes  wheresoe'er  the  tone 
Of  Israel's  prophet-lyre  is  known. 

Still  let  them  come,  —  from  Quito's  walls, 
And  from  the  Orinoco's  tide, 


173 


1?4  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

From  Lima's  Inca-haunted  halls, 
From  Santa  Fe  and  Yucatan,  — 

Men  who  by  swart  Guerrero's  side 
Proclaimed  the  deathless  RIGHTS  OF  MAN, 

Broke  every  bond  and  fetter  off, 

And  hailed  in  every  sable  serf 
A  free  and  brother  Mexican  ! 
Chiefs  who  across  the  Andes'  chain 

Have  followed  Freedom's  flowing  pennon, 
And  seen  on  Junin's  fearful  plain, 
Glare  o'er  the  broken  ranks  of  Spain 

The  fire-burst  of  Bolivar's  cannon  ! 
And  Hayti,  from  her  mountain  land, 

Shall  send  the  sons  of  those  who  hurled 
Defiance  from  her  blazing  strand,  — 
The  war-gage  from  her  Petion's  hand, 

Alone  against  a  hostile  world. 

Nor  all  unmindful,  thou,  the  while, 
Land  of  the  dark  and  mystic  Nile  !  — 

Thy  Moslem  mercy  yet  may  shame 

All  tyrants  of  a  Christian  name,  — 
When  in  the  shade  of  Gizeh's  pile, 
Or,  where  from  Abyssinian  hills 
El  Gerek's  upper  fountain  fills, 
Or  where  from  Mountains  of  the  Moon 
El  Abiad  bears  his  watery  boon, 
Where'er  thy  lotus  blossoms  swim 

Within  their  ancient  hallowed  waters, — 
Where'er  is  heard  the  Coptic  hymn, 

Or  song  of  Nubia's  sable  daughters,  — 
The  curse  of  SLAVERY  and  the  crime, 
Thy  bequest  from  remotest  time, 
At  thy  dark  Mehemet's  decree 


THE    WORLD'S   CONVENTION.  175 

Forevermore  shall  pass  from  thee  ; 

And  chains  forsake  each  captive's  limb 
Of  all  those  tribes,  whose  hills  around 
Have  echoed  back  the  cymbal  sound 

And  victor  horn  of  Ibrahim. 

And  thou  whose  glory  and  whose  crime 
To  earth's  remotest  bound  and  clime, 
In  mingled  tones  of  awe  and  scorn, 
The  echoes  of  a  world  have  borne, 
My  country  !  glorious  at  thy  birth, 
A  day-star  flashing  brightly  forth,  — 

The  herald-sign  of  Freedom's  dawn  ! 
O,  who  could  dream  that  saw  thee  then, 

And  watched  thy  rising  from  afar, 
That  vapors  from  oppression's  fen 

Would  cloud  the  upward  tending  star  ? 
Or,  that  earth's  tyrant  powers,  which  heard, 

Awe-struck,  the  shout  which  hailed  thy  dawning, 
Would  rise  so  soon,  prince,  peer,  and  king, 
To  mock  thee  with  their  welcoming, 
Like  Hades  when  her  thrones  were  stirred 

To  greet  the  down-cast  Star  of  Morning  ! 
"  Aha  !  and  art  thou  fallen  thus  ? 
Art  THOU  become  as  one  of  us  ?  " 

Land  of  my  fathers  !  —  there  will  stand, 
Amidst  that  world-assembled  band. 
Those  owning  thy  maternal  claim 
Unweakened  by  thy  crime  and  shame,  — 
The  sad  reprovers  of  thy  wrong,  — 
The  children  thou  hast  spurned  so  long. 
Still  with  affection's  fondest  yearning 
To  their  unnatural  mother  turning. 
No  traitors  they  !  —  but  tried  and  leal, 


,  76  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

Whose  own  is  but  thy  general  weal, 
Still  blending  with  the  patriot's  zeal 
The  Christian's  love  for  human  kind, 
To  caste  and  climate  unconfined. 


A  holy  gathering  !  —  peaceful  all : 
No  threat  of  war,  —  no  savage  call 

For  vengeance  on  an  erring  brother ; 
But  in  their  stead  the  godlike  plan 
To  teach  the  brotherhood  of  man 

To  love  and  reverence  one  another, 
As  sharers  of  a  common  blood, 
The  children  of  a  common  God  !  — 
Yet,  even  at  its  lightest  word, 
Shall  Slavery's  darkest  depths  be  stirred  : 
Spain,  watching  from  her  Moro's  keep 
Her  slave-ships  traversing  the  deep, 
And  Rio,  in  her  strength  and  pride, 
Lifting,  along  her  mountain-side, 
Her  snowy  battlements  and  towers,  — 
Her  lemon-groves  and  tropic  bowers, 
With  bitter  hate  and  sullen  fear 
Its  freedom-giving  voice  shall  hear  ; 
And  where  my  country's  flag  is  flowing, 
On  breezes  from  Mount  Vernon  blowing 

Above  the  Nation's  council  halls, 
Where  Freedom's  praise  is  loud  and  long, 

While  close  beneath  the  outward  walls 
The  driver  plies  his  reeking  thong,  — 

The  hammer  of  the  man-thief  falls, 
O'er  hypocritic  cheek  and  brow 
The  crimson  flush  of  shame  shall  glow  : 
And  all  who  for  their  native  land 
Are  pledging  life  and  heart  and  hand,  — • 


THE    WORLD'S   CONVENTION. 

Worn  watchers  o'er  her  changing  weal, 

Who  for  her  tarnished  honor  feel,  — 

Through  cottage  door  and  council-hall 

Shall  thunder  an  awakening  call. 

The  pen  along  its  page  shall  burn 

With  all  intolerable  scorn,— 

An  eloquent  rebuke  shall  go 

On  all  the  winds  that  Southward  blow, — 

From  priestly  lips,  now  sealed  and  dumb, 

Warning  and  dread  appeal  shall  come, 

Like  those  which  Israel  heard  from  him, 

The  Prophet  of  the  Cherubim,  — 

Or  those  which  sad  Esaias  hurled 

Against  a  sin-accurse'd  world ! 

Its  wizard  leaves  the  Press  shall  fling 

Unceasing  from  its  iron  wing, 

With  characters  inscribed  thereon, 

As  fearful  in  the  despot's  hall 
As  to  the  pomp  of  Babylon 

The  fire-sign  on  the  palace  wall ! 
And,  from  her  dark  iniquities, 
Methinks  I  see  my  country  rise  : 
Not  challenging  the  nations  round 

To  note  her  tardy  justice  done,  — 
Her  captives  from  their  chains  unbound, 

Her  prisons  opening  to  the  sun  :  — 
But  tearfully  her  arms  extending 
Over  the  poor  and  unoffending  ; 

Her  regal  emblem  now  no  longer 
A  bird  of  prey,  with  talons  reeking, 
Above  the  dying  captive  shrieking, 
But,  spreading  out  her  ample  wing, — 
A  broad,  impartial  covering,  — 

The  weaker  sheltered  by  the  stronger  ! 


,78  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

O,  then  to  Faith's  anointed  eyes 

The  promised  token  shall  be  given ; 
And  on  a  nation's  sacrifice, 
Atoning  for  the  sin  of  years, 
And  wet  with  penitential  tears,  — 
The  fire  shall  fall  from  Heaven ! 
1839- 


NEW    HAMPSHIRE. 
1845. 

GOD   bless    New  Hampshire !  —  from   her  granite 
peaks 

Once  more  the  voice  of  Stark  and  Langdon  speaks. 
The  long-bound  vassal  of  the  exulting  South 

For  very  shame  her  self-forged  chain  has  broken,  — 
Torn  the  black  seal  of  slavery  from  her  mouth, 

And  in  the  clear  tones  of  her  old  time  spoken ! 
O,  all  undreamed-of,  all  unhoped-for  changes  !  — 

The  tyrant's  ally  proves  his  sternest  foe  ; 
To  all  his  biddings,  from  her  mountain  ranges, 

New  Hampshire  thunders  an  indignant  No! 
Who  is  it  now  despairs  ?  O,  faint  of  heart, 

Look  upward  to  those  Northern  mountains  cold, 

Flouted  by  Freedom's  victor-flag  unrolled, 
And  gather  strength  to  bear  a  manlier  part ! 
All  is  not  lost.  The  angel  of  God's  blessing 

Encamps  with  Freedom  on  the  field  of  fight ; 
Still  to  her  banner,  day  by  day,  are  pressing, 

Unlooked-for  allies,  striking  for  the  right ! 
Courage,  then,  Northern  hearts  !  —  Be  firm,  be  true  : 
What  one  brave  State  hath  done,  can  ye  not  also  do  ? 


THE  NEW  YEAR.  ,7Q 


THE    NEW    YEAR. 

ADDRESSED  TO  THE   PATRONS   OF  THE   PENNSYLVANIA 
FREEMAN. 

E  wave  is  breaking  on  the  shore,  — 
The  echo  fading  from  the  chime,  — 
Again  the  shadow  moveth  o'er 
The  dial-plate  of  time  ! 

O  seer-seen  Angel !  waiting  now 
With  weary  feet  on  sea  and  shore 

Impatient  for  the  last  dread  vow 
That  time  shall  be  no  more ! 

Once  more  across  thy  sleepless  eye 
The  semblance  of  a  smile  has  passed : 

The  year  departing  leaves  more  nigh 
Time's  fearfullest  and  last. 

O,  in  that  dying  year  hath  been 

The  sum  of  all  since  time  began,  — 

The  birth  and  death,  the  joy  and  pain, 
Of  Nature  and  of  Man. 

Spring,  with  her  change  of  sun  and  shower, 
And  streams  released  from  winter's  chain, 

And  bursting  bud,  and  opening  flower, 
And  greenly  growing  grain  ; 

And  Summer's  shade,  and  sunshine  warm, 
And  rainbows  o'er  her  hill-tops  bowed, 

And  voices  in  her  rising  storm,  — 
God  speaking  from  his  cloud !  — 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

And  Autumn's  fruits  and  clustering  sheaves, 
And  soft,  warm  days  of  golden  light, 

The  glory  of  her  forest  leaves, 
And  harvest-moon  at  night ; 

And  Winter  with  her  leafless  grove, 

And  prisoned  stream,  and  drifting  snow, 

The  brilliance  of  her  heaven  above 
And  of  her  earth  below  :  — 

And  man,  —  in  whom  an  angel's  mind 
With  earth's  low  instincts  finds  abode,  — 

The  highest  of  the  links  which  bind 
Brute  nature  to  her  God  ; 

His  infant  eye  hath  seen  the  light, 

His  childhood's  merriest  laughter  rung, 

And  active  sports  to  manlier  might 
The  nerves  of  boyhood  strung  ! 

And  quiet  love,  and  passion's  fires, 

Have  soothed  or  burned  in  manhood's  breast, 
And  lofty  aims  and  low  desires 

By  turns  disturbed  his  rest. 

The  wailing  of  the  newly-born 

Has  mingled  with  the  funeral  knell ; 

And  o'er  the  dying's  ear  has  gone 
The  merry  marriage-bell. 

And  Wealth  has  filled  his  halls  with  mirth, 
While  Want,  in  many  a  humble  shed, 

Toiled,  shivering  by  her  cheerless  hearth, 
The  live-long  night  for  bread. 


THE  NEW  YEAR.  181 

And  worse  than  all,  —  the  human  slave,  — 
The  sport  of  lust,  and  pride,  and  scorn  I 

Plucked  off  the  crown  his  Maker  gave,  — 
His  regal  manhood  gone. 

O,  still,  my  country  !  o'er  thy  plains, 

Blackened  with  slavery's  blight  and  ban, 

That  human  chattel  drags  his  chains,  — 
An  uncreated  man ! 

And  still,  where'er  to  sun  and  breeze, 

My  country,  is  thy  flag  unrolled, 
With  scorn,  the  gazing  stranger  sees 

A  stain  on  every  fold. 

O,  tear  the  gorgeous  emblem  down  ! 

It  gathers  scorn  from  every  eye, 
And  despots  smile  and  good  men  frown 

Whene'er  it  passes  by. 

Shame  !  shame  !  its  starry  splendors  glow 
Above  the  slaver's  loathsome  jail,  — 

Its  folds  are  ruffling  even  now 
His  crimson  flag  of  sale. 

Still  round  our  country's  proudest  hall 
The  trade  in  human  flesh  is  driven, 

And  at  each  careless  hammer-fall 
A  human  heart  is  riven. 

And  this,  too,  sanctioned  by  the  men, 
Vested  with  power  to  shield  the  right, 

And  throw  each  vile  and  robber  den 
Wide  open  to  the  light. 


1 82  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

Yet,  shame  upon  them  !  —  there  they  sit, 
Men  of  the  North,  subdued  and  still; 

Meek,  pliant  poltroons,  only  fit 
To  work  a  master's  will. 

Sold,  —  bargained  off  for  Southern  votes,  — 
A  passive  herd  of  Northern  mules, 

Just  braying  through  their  purchased  throats 
Whate'er  their  owner  rules. 

And  he,35  —  the  basest  of  the  base, 
The  vilest  of  the  vile,  —  whose  name, 

Embalmed  in  infinite  disgrace, 
Is  deathless  in  its  shame  !  — 

A  tool,  —  to  bolt  the  people's  door 
Against  the  people  clamoring  there, 

An  ass,  —  to  trample  on  their  floor 
A  people's  right  of  prayer  ! 

Nailed  to  his  self-made  gibbet  fast, 
Self-pilloried  to  the  public  view,  — 

A  mark  for  every  passing  blast 
Of  scorn  to  whistle  through  ; 

There  let  him  hang,  and  hear  the  boast 
Of  Southrons  o'er  their  pilant  tool,  — 

A  new  Stylites  on  his  post, 
"  Sacred  to  ridicule  !  " 

Look  we  at  home  !  —  our  noble  hall, 
To  Freedom's  holy  purpose  given, 

Now  rears  its  black  and  ruined  wall, 
Beneath  the  wintry  heaven, — 


THE  NEW  YEAR.  183 

Telling  the  story  of  its  doom,  — 

The  fiendish  mob,  —  the  prostrate  law, — 

The  fiery  jet  through  midnight's  gloom, 
Our  gazing  thousands  saw. 

Look  to  our  State,  —  the  poor  man's  right 
Torn  from  him  :  —  and  the  sons  of  those 

Whose  blood  in  Freedom's  sternest  fight 
Sprinkled  the  Jersey  snows, 

Outlawed  within  the  land  of  Penn, 

That  Slavery's  guilty  fears  might  cease, 

And  those  whom  God  created  men 
Toil  on  as  brutes  in  peace. 

Yet  o'er  the  blackness  of  the  storm 

A  bow  of  promise  bends  on  high, 
And  gleams  of  sunshine,  soft  and  warm 

Break  through  our  clouded  sky. 

East,  West,  and  North,  the  shout  is  heard, 

Of  freemen  rising  for  the  right : 
Each  valley  hath  its  rallying  word, — 

Each  hill  its  signal  light. 

O'er  Massachusetts'  rocks  of  gray, 

The  strengthening  light  of  freedom  shines, 

Rhode  Island's  Narragansett  Bay,  — 
And  Vermont's  snow-hung  pines  ! 


From  Hudson's  frowning  palisades 
To  Alleghany's  laurelled  crest, 

O'er  lakes  and  prairies,  streams  and  glades 
It  shines  upon  the  West. 


r84  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

Speed  on  the  light  to  those  who  dwell 
In  Slavery's  land  of  woe  and  sin, 

And  through  the  blackness  of  that  hen 
Let  Heaven's  own  light  break  in. 

So  shall  the  Southern  conscience  quake 
Before  that  light  poured  full  and  strong, 

So  shall  the  Southern  heart  awake 
To  all  the  bondman's  wrong. 

And  from  that  rich  and  sunny  land 
The  song  of  grateful  millions  rise, 

Like  that  of  Israel's  ransomed  band 
Beneath  Arabia's  skies  : 

And  all  who  now  are  bound  beneath 
Our  banner's  shade,  our  eagle's  wing 

From  Slavery's  night  of  moral  death 
To  light  and  life  shall  spring. 

Broken  the  bondman's  chain,  and  gone 
The  master's  guilt,  and  hate,  and  fear, 

And  unto  both  alike  shall  dawn 
A  New  and  Happy  Year. 

1839. 


MASSACHUSETTS    TO   VIRGINIA. 

[Written  on  reading  an  account  of  the  proceedings  of  the  citizens  of 
Norfolk,  Va.,  in  reference  to  GEORGE  LATIMER,  the  alleged  fugitive  slave, 
the  result  of  whose  case  in  Massachusetts  will  probably  be  similar  to  that 
of  the  negro  SOMERSET  in  England,  in  1772.] 

pHE  blast  from  Freedom's  Northern  hills,  upon  its 

Southern  way, 
Bears  greeting  to  Virginia  from  Massachusetts  Bay:  — 


MASSACHUSETTS   TO    VIRGINIA. 


185 


No  word  of  haughty  challenging,  nor  battle  bugle's 
peal, 

Nor  steady  tread  of  inarching  files,  nor  clang  of  horse 
men's  steel. 

No  trains  of  deep-mouthed  cannon  along  our  highways 

go, - 

Around  our  silent  arsenals  untrodden  lies  the  snow  ; 
And  to  the  land-breeze  of  our  ports,  upon  their  errands 

far, 
A  thousand  sails  of  commerce   swell,   but   none   are 

spread  for  war. 

We  hear  thy  threats,  Virginia  !  thy  stormy  words  and 

high, 
Swell  harshly  on  the  Southern  winds  which  melt  along 

our  sky  ; 
Yet,  not  one  brown,  hard  hand  foregoes  its  honest  labor 

here,  — 
No  hewer  of  our  mountain  oaks  suspends  his  axe  in 

fear. 

Wild   are   the  waves  which  lash  the  reefs  along  St. 

George's  bank,  — 
Cold  on  the  shore  of  Labrador  the  fog  lies  white  and 

dank  ; 
Through  storm  and  wave  and  blinding  mist  stout  are 

the  hearts  which  man 
The  fishing-smacks  of  Marblehead,  the   sea-boats  of 

Cape  Ann. 

The  cold  north  light  and  wintry  sun  glare  on  their  icy 

forms, 
Bent  grimly  o'er  their  straining  lines  or  wrestling  with 

the  storms  ; 


1 86  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM, 

Free  as  the  winds  they  drive  before,  rough  as  the  waves 

they  roam, 
They  laugh  to  scorn  the  slaver's  threat  against  their 

rocky  home. 

What  means  the  Old  Dominion  ?     Hath  she  forgot  the 

day 
When  o'er  her  conquered  valleys  swept  the  Briton's 

steel  array  ? 
How  side  by  side,  with  sons  of  hers,  the  Massachusetts 

men 
Encountered  Tarleton's  charge  of  fire,  and  stout  Corn- 

wallis,  then  ? 

Forgets  she  how  the  Bay  State,  in  answer  to  the  call 
Of  her  old  House  of  Burgesses,  spoke  out  from  Faneuil 

Hall? 
When,  echoing  back  her  Henry's  cry,  came  pulsing  on 

each  breath 
Of  Northern  winds,  the  thrilling  sounds  of  "  LIBERTY 

OR  DEATH  ! " 

What  asks  the  Old  Dominion  ?     If  now  her  sons  have 

proved 
False  to  their  fathers'  memory,  —  false  to  the  faith  they 

loved, 

If  she  can  scoff  at  Freedom,  and  its  great  charter  spurn, 
Must  we  of  Massachusetts  from  truth  and  duty  turn  ? 

We  hunt  your  bondmen,  flying  from  Slavery's  hateful 

hell,  - 
Our  voices,  at  your  bidding,  take  up  the  bloodhound's 

yell,- 


MASSACHUSETTS   TO    VIRGINIA.        jgy 

We  gather,  at  your  summons,  above  our  fathers'  graves, 
From  Freedom's  holy  altar-horns  to  tear  your  wretched 
slaves  ! 

Thank   God  !    not    yet    so  vilely   can    Massachusetts 

bow  ; 

The  spirit  of  her  early  time  is  with  her  even  now  ; 
Dream  not  because  her  Pilgrim  blood  moves  slow  and 

calm  and  cool, 
She  thus  can  stoop  her  chainless  neck,  a  sister's  slave 

and  tool ! 

All  that  a  sister  State  should  do,  all  that  zfree  State  may, 
Heart,  hand,  and  purse  we  proffer,  as  in  our  early  day ; 
But  that  one  dark  loathsome  burden  ye  must  stagger 

with  alone, 
And  reap  the  bitter  harvest  which  ye  yourselves  have 

sown ! 

Hold,  while  ye  may,  your  struggling  slaves,  and  burden 

God's  free  air 
With  woman's  shriek  beneath  the  lash,  and  manhood's 

wild  despair  ; 
Cling  closer  to  the  "  cleaving  curse  "  that  writes  upon 

your  plains 
The  blasting  of  Almighty  wrath  against  a  land  of  chains. 

Still  shame  your  gallant  ancestry,  the  cavaliers  of  old, 
By  watching  round  the  shambles  where  human  flesh  is 

sold,  — 
Gloat  o'er  the  new-born  child,  and  count  his  market 

value,  when 
The  maddened  mother's  cry  of  woe  shall  pierce  the 

slaver's  den ! 


!88  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

Lower  than  plummet  soundeth,  sink  the  Virginia  name  ,' 
Plant,  if  ye  will,  your  fathers'  graves  with  rankest  weeds 

of  shame  ; 

Be,  if  ye  will,  the  scandal  of  God's  fair  universe,  — 
We  wash  our  hands  forever  of  your  sin  and  shame  and 

curse. 

A  voice  from  lips  whereon  the  coal  from  Freedom's 

shrine  hath  been, 
Thrilled,  as  but  yesterday,  the  hearts  of  Berkshire's 

mountain  men  : 

The  echoes  of  that  solemn  voice  are  sadly  lingering  still 
In  all  our  sunny  valleys,  on  every  wind-swept  hill. 

And  when  the  prowling  man-thief  came  hunting  for  his 
prey 

Beneath  the  very  shadow  of  Bunker's  shaft  of  gray, 

How,  through  the  free  lips  of  the  son,  the  father's  warn 
ing  spoke  ; 

How,  from  its  bonds  of  trade  and  sect,  the  Pilgrim  city 
broke  ! 

A  hundred  thousand  right  arms  were  lifted  up  on  high,  — 

A  hundred  thousand  voices  sent  back  their  loud  reply  ; 

Through  the  thronged  towns  of  Essex  the  startling  sum 
mons  rang, 

And  up  from  bench  and  loom  and  wheel  her  young  me 
chanics  sprang  ! 

The  voice  of  free,  broad  Middlesex,  —  of  thousands  as 

of  one,  — 

The  shaft  of  Bunker  calling  to  that  of  Lexington,— 
From  Norfolk's  ancient  villages,  from  Plymouth's  rocky 

bound 
To  where  Nantucket  feels  the  arms  of  ocean  close  her 

round ;  — 


MASSACHUSETTS   TO    VIRGINIA.         189 

From  rich  and  rural  Worcester,  where  through  the  calm 

repose 
Of  cultured  vales  and  fringing  woods  the  gentle  Nashua 

flows, 
To  where  Wachuset's  wintry  blasts  the  mountain  larches 

stir, 
Swelled  up  to  Heaven  the  thrilling  cry  of  "  God  save 

Latimer !  " 

And  sandy  Barnstable  rose  up,  wet  with  the  salt  sea 

spray,  — • 
And  Bristol  sent  her  answering  shout  down  Narragan- 

sett  Bay ! 
Along  the  broad   Connecticut  old  Hampden  felt  the 

thrill, 
And  the  cheer  of  Hampshire's  woodmen  swept  down 

from  Holyoke  Hill. 

The  voice  of  Massachusetts  !     Of  her  free  sons  and 

daughters,  — 
Deep  calling  unto  deep  aloud,  —  the  sound  of  many 

waters  ! 
Against  the  burden  of  that  voice  what  tyrant  power 

shall  stand  ? 
No  fetters  in  the  Bay  State  !    No  slave  upon  her  land ! 

Look  to  it  well,  Virginians  !  In  calmness  we  have 
borne, 

In  answer  to  our  faith  and  trust,  your  insult  and  your 
scorn  ; 

You  've  spurned  our  kindest  counsels,  —  you  've  hunted 
for  our  lives,  — 

And  shaken  rou-nd  our  hearths  and  homes  your  mana 
cles  and  gyves  ! 


1 90  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

We  wage  no  war,  —  we  lift  no  arm,  —  we  fling  no  torch 

within 
The  fire-damps  of  the  quaking  mine  beneath  your  soil 

of  sin  ; 

We  leave  ye  with  your  bondmen,  to  wrestle,  while  ye  can, 
With  the  strong  upward  tendencies  and  godlike  soul  of 

man  ! 

But  for  us  and  for  our  children,  the  vow  which  we  have 

given 

For  freedom  and  humanity  is  registered  in  heaven  ; 
No  slave-hunt  in  our  borders,  —  no  pirate  on  our  strand  ! 
No  fetters  in  the  Bay  State,  —  no  slave  upon  our  land ! 


THE    RELIC. 

[PENNSYLVANIA  HALL,  dedicated  to  Free  Discussion  and  the  cause  of 
human  liberty,  was  destroyed  by  a  mob  in  1838.  The  following  was  writ 
ten  on  receiving  a  cane  wrought  froin  a  fragment  of  the  wood-work  which 
the  fire  had  spared.] 


of  friendship  true  and  tried, 
*       From  one  whose  fiery  heart  of  youth, 
With  mine  has  beaten  side  by  side, 

For  Liberty  and  Truth  ; 
With  honest  pride  the  gift  I  take, 
And  prize  it  for  the  giver's  sake. 

But  not  alone  because  it  tells 

Of  generous  hand  and  heart  sincere  ; 

Around  that  gift  of  friendship  dwells 
A  memory  doubly  dear,  — 

Earth's  noblest  aim,  —  man's  holiest  thought, 

With  that  memorial  frail  Liwrought  I 


THE  RELIC.  191 

Pure  thoughts  and  sweet,  like  flowers  unfold, 
And  precious  memories  round  it  cling, 

Even  as  the  Prophet's  rod  of  old 
In  beauty  blossoming  : 

And  buds  of  feeling  pure  and  good 

Spring  from  its  cold  unconscious  wood. 

Relic  of  Freedom's  shrine  !  —  a  brand 
Plucked  from  its  burning  !  —  let  it  be 

Dear  as  a  jewel  from  the  hand 
Of  a  lost  friend  to  me  !  — 

Flower  of  a  perished  garland  left, 

Of  life  and  beauty  unbereft ! 

O,  if  the  young  enthusiast  bears, 
O'er  weary  waste  and  sea,  the  stone 

Which  crumbled  from  the  Forum's  stairs, 
Or  round  the  Parthenon  ; 

Or  olive-bough  from  some  wild  tree 

Hung  over  old  Thermopylae  : 

If  leaflets  from  some  hero's  tomb, 

Or  moss-wreath  torn  from  ruins  hoary,— 

Or  faded  flowers  whose  sisters  bloom 
On  fields  renowned  in  story,  — 

Or  fragment  from  the  Alhambra's  crest, 

Or  the  gray  rock  by  Druids  blessed  ; 

Sad  Erin's  shamrock  greenly  growing 
Where  Freedom  led  her  stalwart  kern, 

Or  Scotia's  "rough  bur  thistle  "  blowing 
On  Bruce's  Bannockburn,  — 

Or  Runnymede's  wild  English  rose, 

Or  lichen  plucked  from  Sempach's  snows  I  — 


T92 


VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

If  it  be  true  that  things  like  these 
To  heart  and  eye  bright  visions  bring, 

Shall  not  far  holier  memories 
To  this  memorial  cling  ? 

Which  needs  no  mellowing  mist  of  time 

To  hide  the  crimson  stains  of  crime  ! 

Wreck  of  a  temple,  unprofaned,  — 

Of  courts  where  Peace  with  Freedom  trod, 

Lifting  on  high,  with  hands  unstained, 
Thanksgiving  unto  God  ; 

Where  mercy's  voice  of  love  was  pleading 

For  human  hearts  in  bondage  bleeding  !  — 

Where,  midst  the  sound  of  rushing  feet 

And  curses  on  the  night-air  flung, 
That  pleading  voice  rose  calm  and  sweet 

From  woman's  earnest  tongue  ; 
And  Riot  turned  his  scowling  glance, 
Awed,  from  her  tranquil  countenance  ! 

• 
That  temple  now  in  ruin  lies  !  — 

The  fire-stain  on  its  shattered  wall, 
And  open  to  the  changing  skies 

Its  black  and  roofless  hall, 
It  stands  before  a  nation's  sight, 
A  gravestone  over  buried  Right ! 

But  from  that  ruin,  as  of  old, 

The  fire-scorched  stones  themselves  are  crying, 
And  from  their  ashes  white  and  cold 

Its  timbers  are  replying  ! 
A  voice  which  slavery"  cannot  kill 
Speaks  from  the  crumbling  arches  still ! 


THE  BRANDED   HAND. 

And  even  this  relic  from  thy  shrine, 

O  holy  Freedom  !  hath  to  me 
A  potent  power,  a  voice  and  sign 

To  testify  of  thee  ; 
And,  grasping  it,  methinks  I  feel 
A  deeper  faith,  a  stronger  zeal. 

And  not  unlike  that  mystic  rod, 

Of  old  stretched  o'er  the  Egyptian  wave, 
Which  opened,  in  the  strength  of  God, 

A  pathway  for  the  slave, 
It  yet  may  point  the  bondman's  way, 
And  turn  the  spoiler  from  his  prey. 


THE    BRANDED    HAND. 


\~\  WELCOME  home  again,  brave  seaman  !  with  thy 

*     thoughtful  brow  and  gray, 

And  the  old  heroic  spirit  of  our  earlier,  better  day,  — 
With  that  front  of  calm  endurance,  on  whose  steady 

nerve  in  vain 
Pressed  the  iron  of  the  prison,  smote  the  fiery  shafts 

of  pain ! 

Is  the  tyrant's  brand  upon  thee  ?  Did  the  brutal  cra 
vens  aim 

To  make  God's  truth  thy  falsehood,  his  holiest  work 
thy  shame  ? 

When,  all  blood-quenched,  from  the  torture  the  iron 
was  withdrawn, 

How  laughed  their  evil  angel  the  baffled  fools  to  scorn  ! 

VOL.    I.  9 


1 94  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

They  change  to  wrong  the  duty  which  God  hath  written 
out 

On  the  great  heart  of  humanity,  too  legible  for  doubt ! 

They,  the  loathsome  moral  lepers,  blotched  from  foot- 
sole  up  to  crown, 

Give  to  shame  what  God  hath  given  unto  honor  and 
renown ! 

Why,  that  brand  is  highest  honor  !  —  than  its  traces 

never  yet 
Upon  old  armorial  hatchments  was  a  prouder  blazon 

set; 
And  thy  unborn  generations,  as  they  tread  our  rocky 

strand, 
Shall  tell  with  pride  the  story  of  their  father's  BRANDED 

HAND! 

As  the  Templar  home  was  welcome,  bearing  back  from 

Syrian  wars 

The  scars  of  Arab  lances  and  of  Paynim  scymitars, 
The  pallor  of  the  prison,  and  the  shackle's  crimson  span, 
So  we  meet  thee,  so  we  greet  thee,  truest  friend  of  God 

and  man  ! 

He  suffered  for  the  ransom  of  the  dear  Redeemer's 

grave, 
Thou  for  his  living  presence  in  the  bound  and  bleeding 

slave  ; 

He  for  a  soil  no  longer  by  the  feet  of  angels  trod, 
Thou  for  the  true  Shechinah,  the  present  home  of  God  ! 

For,  while  the  jurist,  sitting  with  the  slave-whip  o'er 

him  swung, 
From  the  tortured  truths  of  freedom  the  lie  of  slavery 

wrung, 


THE  BRANDED  HAND. 


195 


And  the  solemn  priest  to  Moloch,  on  each  God-deserted 
shrine, 

Broke  the  bondman's  heart  for  bread,  poured  the  bond 
man's  blood  for  wine,  — 

While  the  multitude  in  blindness  to  a  far-off  Saviour 
knelt, 

And  spurned,  the  while,  the  temple  where  a  present 
Saviour  dwelt ; 

Thou  beheld'st  him  in  the  task-field,  in  the  prison  shad 
ows  dim, 

And  thy  mercy  to  the  bondman,  it  was  mercy  unto  him  ! 

In  thy  lone  and  long  night-watches,  sky  above  and 

wave  below, 
Thou  didst  learn  a  higher  wisdom  than  the  babbling 

schoolmen  know  ; 
God's  stars  and  silence  taught  thee,  as  his  angels  only 

can, 
That  the  one  sole  sacred  thing  beneath  the  cope  of 

heaven  is  Man ! 

That  he  who  treads  profanely  on  the  scrolls  of  law  and 

creed, 
In  the  depth  of  God's  great  goodness  may  find  mercy 

in  his  need ; 
But  woe  to  him  who  crushes  the  SOUL,  with  chain  and 

rod, 
And  herds  with  lower  natures  the  awful  form  of  God  ! 

Then  lift  that  manly  right-hand,  bold  ploughman  of  the 

wave ! 
Its  branded  palm  shall  prophesy,  "  SALVATION  TO  THE 

SLAVE  ! " 


196  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

Hold  tip  its  fire-wrought  language,  that  whoso  reads 

may  feel 
His  heart  swell  strong  within  him,  his  sinews  change 

to  steel. 

Hold  it  up  before  our  sunshine,  up  against  our  North 
ern  air,  — 

Ho  !  men  of  Massachusetts,  for  the  love  of  God,  look 
there  ! 

Take  it  henceforth  for  your  standard,  like  the  Bruce's 
heart  of  yore, 

In  the  dark  strife  closing  round  ye,  let  that  hand  be 
seen  before ! 

And  the  tyrants  of  the  slave-land  shall  tremble  at  that 

sign, 
When  it  points  its  finger  Southward  along  the  Puritan 

line  : 
Woe  to  the   State-gorged  leeches  and   the   Church's 

locust  band, 
When  they  look  from  slavery's  ramparts  on  the  coming 

of  that  hand ! 


TEXAS. 

VOICE  OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

UP  the  hillside,  down  the  glen, 
Rouse  the  sleeping  citizen  ; 
Summon  out  the  might  of  men  ! 

Like  a  lion  growling  low,  — 
Like  a  night-storm  rising  slow,  — 
Like  the  tread  of  unseen  foe,  — 


TEXAS.  I97 

It  is  coming,  —  it  is  nigh  ! 
Stand  your  homes  and  altars  by  ; 
On  your  own  free  thresholds  die. 

Clang  the  bells  in  all  your  spires ; 
On  the  gray  hills  of  your  sires 
Fling  to  heaven  your  signal-fires. 

From  Wachuset,  lone  and  bleak, 

Unto  Berkshire's  tallest  peak, 

Let  the  flame-tongued  heralds  speak, 

O,  for  God  and  duty  stand, 
Heart  to  heart  and  hand  to  hand, 
Round  the  old  graves  of  the  land. 

Whoso  shrinks  or  falters  now, 
Whoso  to  the  yoke  would  bow, 
Brand  the  craven  on  his  brow  ! 

Freedom's  soil  hath  only  place 
For  a  free  and  fearless  race, — 
None  for  traitors  false  and  base. 

Perish  party,  —  perish  clan  ; 
Strike  together  while  ye  can, 
Like  the  arm  of  one  strong  man. 

Like  that  angel's  voice  sublime, 
Heard  above  a  world  of  crime, 
Crying  of  the  end  of  time,  — 

With  one  heart  and  with  one  mouth 
Let  the  North  unto  the  South 
Speak  the  word  befitting  both : 


IQ 8  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

"  What  though  Issachar  be  strong ! 
Ye  may  load  his  back  with  wrong 
Overmuch  and  over  long  : 

"  Patience  with  her  cup  o'errun, 
With  her  weary  thread  outspun, 
Murmurs  that  her  work  is  done. 

"  Make  our  Union-bond  a  chain, 
Weak  as  tow  in  Freedom's  strain, 
Link  by  link  shall  snap  in  twain. 

"  Vainly  shall  your  sand- wrought  rope 
Bind  the  starry  cluster  up, 
Shattered  over  heaven's  blue  cope  ! 

"  Give  us  bright  though  broken  rays, 
Rather  than  eternal  haze, 
Clouding  o'er  the  full-orbed  blaze. 

"  Take  your  land  of  sun  and  bloom  ; 

Only  leave  to  Freedom  room 

For  her  plough,  and  forge,  and  loom ; 

"  Take  your  slavery-blackened  vales  ; 
Leave  us  but  our  own  free  gales, 
Blowing  on  our  thousand  sails. 

"  Boldly,  or  with  treacherous  art, 
Strike  the  blood-wrought  chain  apart; 
Break  the  Union's  mighty  heart ; 

"  Work  the  ruin,  if  ye  will ; 
Pluck  upon  your  heads  an  ill 
Which  shall  grow  and  deepen  still. 


TEXAS.  I99 

"  With  your  bondman's  right  arm  bare, 
With  his  heart  of  black  despair, 
Stand  alone,  if  stand  ye  dare  ! 

"  Onward  with  your  fell  design  ; 
Dig  the  gulf  and  draw  the  line  : 
Fire  beneath  your  feet  the  mine  : 

"  Deeply,  when  the  wide  abyss 
Yawns  between  your  land  and  this, 
Shall  ye  feel  your  helplessness. 

"  By  the  hearth,  and  in  the  bed, 
Shaken  by  a  look  or  tread, 
Ye  shall  own  a  guilty  dread. 

"And  the  curse  of  unpaid  toil, 
Downward  through  your  generous  soil 
Like  a  fire  shall  burn  and  spoil. 

"  Our  bleak  hills  shall  bud  and  blow, 
Vines  our  rocks  shall  overgrow, 
Plenty  in  our  valleys  flow  ;  — 

"  And  when  vengeance  clouds  your  skies, 
Hither  shall  ye  turn  your  eyes, 
As  the  lost  on  Paradise  ! 

"  We  but  ask  our  rocky  strand. 
Freedom's  true  and  brother  band, 
Freedom's  strong  and  honest  hand, — 

Valleys  by  the  slave  untrod,  . 

And  the  Pilgrim's  mountain  sod, 
Blesse'd  of  our  fathers'  God ! " 


200  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

TO    FANEUIL    HALL. 

1844. 


EN  !  —  if  manhood  still  ye  claim, 
If  the  Northern  pulse  can  thrill, 
Roused  by  wrong  or  stung  by  shame, 

Freely,  strongly  still,  — 
Let  the  sounds  of  traffic  die  : 

Shut  the  mill-gate,  — leave  the  stall,  — 
Fling  the  axe  and  hammer  by, — 
Throng  to  Faneuil  Hall ! 

. 
Wrongs  which  freemen  never  brooked,  — 

Dangers  grim  and  fierce  as  they, 
Which,  like  couching  lions,  looked 

On  your  fathers'  way,  — 
These  your  instant  zeal  demand, 

Shaking  with  their  earthquake-call 
Every  rood  of  Pilgrim  land, 

Ho,  to  Faneuil  Hall! 

From  your  capes  and  sandy  bars,  — 

From  your  mountain-ridges  cold, 
Through  whose  pines  the  westering  stars 

Stoop  their  crowns  of  gold,  — 
Come,  and  with  your  footsteps  wake 

Echoes  from  that  holy  wall ; 
Once  again,  for  Freedom's  sake. 

Rock  your  fathers'  hall ! 

Up,  and  tread  beneath  your  feet 
Every  cord  by  party  spun  ; 


TO  MASSACHUSETTS.  2OI 

Let  your  hearts  together  beat 

As  the  heart  of  one. 
Banks  and  tariffs,  stocks  and  trade, 

Let  them  rise  or  let  them  fall : 
Freedom  asks  your  common  aid,  — 

Up,  to  Faneuil  Hall ! 

Up,  and  let  each  voice  that  speaks 

Ring  from  thence  to  Southern  plains, 
Sharply  as  the  blow  which  breaks 

Prison-bolts  and  chains ! 
Speak  as  well  becomes  the  free  : 

Dreaded  more  than  steel  or  ball, 
Shall  your  calmest  utterance  be, 

Heard  from  Faneuil  Hall ! 

Have  they  wronged  us  ?     Let  us  then 

Render  back  nor  threats  nor  prayers  ; 
Have  they  chained  our  free-born  men?  ' 

LET  US  UNCHAIN  THEIRS  ! 

Up,  your  banner  leads  the  van, 

Blazoned,  "  Liberty  for  all !  " 
Finish  what  your  sires  began  ! 

Up,  to  Faneuil  Hall ! 


TO   MASSACHUSETTS. 

1844. 

VKTHAT  though  around  thee  blazes 

No  fiery  rallying  sign  ? 
From  all  thy  own  high  places, 
Give  heaven  the  light  of  thine  .' 


202 


VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

What  though  unthrilled,  unmoving, 
The  statesman  stands  apart, 

And  comes  no  warm  approving 
From  Mammon's  crowded  mart  ? 

Still,  let  the  land  be  shaken 

By  a  summons  of  thine  own ! 
By  all  save  truth  forsaken, 

Why,  stand  with  that  alone  ! 
Shrink  not  from  strife  unequal ! 

With  the  best  is  always  hope ; 
And  ever  in  the  sequel 

God  holds  the  right  side  up  ! 

But  when,  with  thine  uniting, 

Come  voices  long  and  loud, 
And  far  off  hills  are  writing 

Thy  fire-words  on  the  cloud  ; 
When  from  Penobscot's  fountains 

A  deep  response  is  heard, 
And  across  the  Western  mountains 

Rolls  back  thy  rallying  word  ; 

Shall  thy  line  of  battle  falter, 

With  its  allies  just  in  view  ? 
O,  by  hearth  and  holy  altar, 

My  fatherland,  be  true  ! 
Fling  abroad  thy  scrolls  of  Freedom  ! 

Speed  them  onward  far  and  fast ! 
Over  hill  and  valley  speed  them, 

Like  the  sibyl's  on  the  blast ! 

Lo  !  the  Empire  State  is  shaking 
The  shackles  from  her  hand  ; 


THE  PINE    TREE.  203 

With  the  rugged  North  is  waking 

The  level  sunset  land  ! 
On  they  come,  —  the  free  battalions  ! 

East  and  West  and  North  they  come, 
And  the  heart-beat  of  the  millions 

Is  the  beat  of  Freedom's  drum. 

"  To  the  tyrant's  plot  no  favor  ! 

No  heed  to  place-fed  knaves ! 
Bar  and  bolt  the  door  forever 

Against  the  land  of  slaves  !  " 
Hear  it,  mother  Earth,  and  hear  it, 

The  Heavens  above  us  spread ! 
The  land  is  roused,  —  its  spirit 

Was  sleeping,  but  not  dead ! 


THE   PINE-TREE. 

LIFT  again  the  stately  emblem  on  the  Bay  State's 
rusted  shield, 
Give  to  Northern  winds  the  Pine-Tree  on  our  banner's 

tattered  field. 
Sons  of  men  who  sat  in  council  with  their  Bibles  round 

the  board. 
Answering  England's  royal  missive  with  a  firm,  "  THUS 

SAITH  THE  LORD  !  " 
Rise  again  for  home  and  freedom  !  —  set  the  battle  in 

array  !  — 
What  the  fathers  did  of  old  time  we  their  sons  must  do 

to-day. 


204  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

Tell  us  not  of  banks  and  tariffs,  —  cease  your  paltry 

pedler  cries,  — 
Shall  the  good  State  sink  her  honor  that  your  gambling 

stocks  may  rise  ? 
Would  ye  barter  man  for  cotton?  —  That  your  gains 

may  sum  up  higher, 
Must  we  kiss  the  feet  of  Moloch,  pass  our  children 

through  the  fire  ? 
Is  the  dollar  only  real  ?  —  God  and  truth  and  right  a 

dream  ? 
Weighed  against  your  lying  ledgers  must  our  manhood 

kick  the  beam  ? 

O  my  God !  —  for  that  free  spirit,  which  of  old  in  Boston 

town 
Smote  the  Province  House  with  terror,  struck  the  crest 

of  Andros  down  !  — 
For  another  strong-voiced  Adams  in  the  city's  streets 

to  cry, 
"  Up  for  God  and  Massachusetts  !  —  Set  your  feet  on 

Mammon's  lie  ! 
Perish  banks  and  perish  traffic,  —  spin  your  cotton's 

latest  pound,  — 
But  in  Heaven's  name  keep  your  honor,  —  keep  the 

heart  o'  the  Bay  State  sound !  " 

Where  's  the  MAN  for  Massachusetts  ?  —  Where  's  the 
voice  to  speak  her  free  ?  — 

Where  's  the  hand  to  light  up  bonfires  from  her  moun 
tains  to  the  sea  ? 

Beats  her  Pilgrim  pulse  no  longer  T  —  -S>t?  she  dumb 
in  her  despair  ?  — 

Has  she  none  to  break  the  silence  ?-  -  Has  she  none  to 
do  and  dare  ? 


LINES. 


=  05 


O  my  God  !  for  one  right  worthy  to  lift  up  her  rusted 

shield, 
And    to   plant   again   the    Pine-Tree  in   her   banner's 

tattered  field  ! 


LINES, 

SUGGESTED  BY  A  VISIT   TO   THE  CITY  OF  WASHINGTON, 
IN  THE  I2TH  MONTH  OF  1845. 

WITH  a  cold  and  wintry  noon-light, 
On  its  roofs  and  steeples  shed, 
Shadows  weaving  with  the  sunlight 

From  the  gray  sky  overhead, 

Broadly,  vaguely,  all  around  me,  lies  the  half-built  town 
outspread. 

Through  this  broad  street,  restless  ever, 

Ebbs  and  flows  a  human  tide, 
Wave  on  wave  a  living  river  ; 

Wealth  and  fashion  side  by  side ; 

Toiler,  idler,  slave  and  master,  in  the  same  quick  cur 
rent  glide. 

Underneath  yon  dome,  whose  coping 
Springs  above  them,  vast  and  tall, 
Grave  men  in  the  dust  are  groping 
For  the  largess,  base  and  small, 

Which  the  hand  of  Power  is  scattering,  crumbs  which 
from  its  table  fall. 


_L 


206  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

Base  of  heart  !    They  vilely  barter 
Honor's  wealth  for  party's  place  : 
Step  by  step  on  Freedom's  charter 

Leaving  footprints  of  disgrace  ; 

For  to-day's  poor  pittance  turning  from  the  great  hope 
of  their  race. 

Yet.  where  festal  lamps  are  throwing 

Glory  round  the  dancer's  hair, 
Gold-tressed,  like  an  angel's,  flowing 

Backward  on  the  sunset  air  ; 

And  the  low  quick  pulse  of  music  beats  its  measures 
sweet  and  rare  : 

There  to-night  shall  woman's  glances, 

Star-like,  welcome  give  to  them, 
Fawning  fools  with  shy  advances 

Seek  to  touch  their  garments'  hem, 
With  the  tongue  of  flattery  glozing  deeds  which  God 
and  Truth  condemn. 

From  this  glittering  lie  my  vision 
Takes  a  broader,  sadder  range, 
Full  before  me  have  arisen 

Other  pictures  dark  and  strange  ; 

From  the  parlor  to  the  prison  must  the  scene  and  wit 
ness  change. 

Hark!  the  heavy  gate  is  swinging 
On  its  hinges,  harsh  and  slow ; 
One  pale  prison  lamp  is  flinging 

On  a  fearful  group  below 

Such  a  light  as  leaves  to  terror  whatsoe'er  it  does  not 
show. 


4 


LINES.  207 

Pitying  God !  —  Is  that  a  WOMAN 

On  whose  wrist  the  shackles  clash  ? 
Is  that  shriek  she  utters  human, 
Underneath  the  stinging  lash  ? 

Are  they  MEN  whose  eyes  of  madness  from  that  sad 
procession  flash  ? 

Still  the  dance  goes  gayly  onward  ! 

What  is  it  to  Wealth  and  Pride 
That  without  the  stars  are  looking 

On  a  scene  which  earth  should  hide  ? 
That  the  SLAVE-SHIP  lies  in  waiting,  rocking  on  Poto 
mac's  tide ! 

Vainly  to  that  mean  Ambition 

Which,  upon  a  rival's  fall, 
Winds  above  its  old  condition, 
With  a  reptile's  slimy  crawl, 

Shall  the  pleading  voice  of  sorrow,  shall  the  slave  in 
anguish  call. 

Vainly  to  the  child  of  Fashion, 

Giving  to  ideal  woe 
Graceful  luxury  of  compassion, 

Shall  the  stricken  mourner  go  ; 

Hateful  seems  the  earnest  sorrow,  beautiful  the  hollow 
show  ! 

Nay,  my  words  are  all  too  sweeping : 

In  this  crowded  human  mart, 
Feeling  is  not  dead,  but  sleeping  ; 

Man's  strong  will  and  woman's  heart, 
In  the  coming  strife  for  Freedom,  yet  shall  bear  their 
generous  part. 


208  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM, 

And  from  yonder  sunny  valleys, 

Southward  in  the  distance  lost, 
Freedom  yet  shall  summon  allies 

Worthier  than  the  North  can  boast, 
With    the    Evil   by   their   hearth-stones    grappling  at 
severer  cost. 

Now,  the  soul  alone  is  willing  : 

Faint  the  heart  and  weak  the  knee  ; 
And  as  yet  no  lip  is  thrilling 

With  the  mighty  words,  "  BE  FREE  ! " 
Tarrieth  long  the  land's  Good  Angel,  but  his  advent 
is  to  be ! 

Meanwhile,  turning  from  the  revel 

To  the  prison-cell  my  sight, 
For  intenser  hate  of  evil, 

For  a  keener  sense  of  right, 

Shaking  off  thy  dust,  I  thank  thee,  City  of  the  Slaves, 
to-night ! 

"  To  thy  duty  now  and  ever  ! 

Dream  no  more  of  rest  or  stay ; 
Give  to  Freedom's  great  endeavor 

All  thou  art  and  hast  to-day  "  :  — 
Thus,  above  the  city's  murmur,  saith  a  Voice,  or  se  ims 
to  say. 

Ye  with  heart  and  vision  gifted 
To  discern  and  love  the  right, 
Whose  worn  faces  have  been  lifted 

To  the  slowly-growing  light, 

Where  from  Freedom's  sunrise  drifted  slowly  back  the 
murk  of  night !  — 


LINES.  209 

Ye  who  through  long  years  of  trial 

Still  have  held  your  purpose  fast, 

While  a  lengthening  shade  the  dial 

From  the  westering  sunshine  cast, 
And  of  hope  each  hour's  denial  seemed  an  echo  of  the 
last !  — 


O  my  brothers  !    O  my  sisters ! 

Would  to  God  that  ye  were  near, 
Gazing  with  me  down  the  vistas 

Of  a  sorrow  strange  and  drear  ; 

Would  to  God  that  ye  were  listeners  to  the  Voice  I 
seem  to  hear ! 

With  the  storm  above  us  driving, 

With  the  false  earth  mined  below,  — 
Who  shall  marvel  if  thus  striving  *    *     • 

We  have  counted  friend  as  foe  ? 

Unto  one   another  giving  in   the  darkness  blow  for 
blow. 

Well  it  may  be  that  our  natures 

Have  grown  sterner  and  more  hard, 
And  the  freshness  of  their  features 

Somewhat  harsh  and  battle-scarred, 
And  their  harmonies  of  feeling  overtasked  and  rudely 
jarred. 

Be  it  so.     It  should  not  swerve  us 
From  a  purpose  true  and  brave  ; 
Dearer  Freedom's  rugged  service 
Than  the  pastime  of  the  slave  ; 

Better  is  the  storm   above   it   than  the  quiet  of  the 
grave. 


210  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

Let  us  then,  uniting,  bury 

All  our  idle  feuds  in  dust, 
And  to  future  conflicts  carry 

Mutual  faith  and  common  trust ; 
Always  he  who  most  forgi  veth  in  his  brother  is  most  just 

From  the  eternal  shadow  rounding 

All  our  sun  and  starlight  here, 
Voices  of  our  lost  ones  sounding 
Bid  us  be  of  heart  and  cheer, 

Through  the  silence,  down  the  spaces,  falling  on  the 
inward  ear. 

Know  we  not  our  dead  are  looking 

Downward  with  a  sad  surprise, 
All  our  strife  of  words  rebuking 

With  their  mild  and  loving  eyes  ? 

Shall  we  grieve  the  holy  angels  ?     Shall  we  cloud  their 
blessed  skies  ? 

Let  us  draw  their  mantles  o'er  us 
Which  have  fallen  in  our  way  ; 
Let  us  do  the  work  before  us, 

Cheerly,  bravely,  while  we  may, 

Ere  the  long  night-silence  cometh,  and  with  us  it  is  not 
day! 


LINES, 

FROM  A  LETTER  TO  A  YOUNG  CLERICAL  FRIEND. 

A  STRENGTH  Thy  service  cannot  tire,— 
A  faith  which  doubt  can  never  dim,  — • 
A  heart  of  love,  a  lip  of  fire,  — 

O  Freedom's  God  !  be  thou  to  him  ! 


LINES.  2ii 

Speak  through  him  words  of  power  and  fear, 
As  through  thy  prophet  bards  of  old, 

And  let  a  scornful  people  hear 

Once  more  thy  Sinai-thunders  rolled. 

For  lying  lips  thy  blessing  seek, 
And  hands  of  blood  are  raised  to  Thee, 

And  on  thy  children,  crushed  and  weak, 
The  oppressor  plants  his  kneeling  knee. 

Let  then,  O  God  !  thy  servant  dare 

Thy  truth  in  all  its  power  to  tell, 
Unmask  the  priestly  thieves,  and  tear 

The  Bible  from  the  grasp  of  hell ! 

From  hollow  rite  and  narrow  span 

Of  law  and  sect  by  Thee  released, 
O,  teach  him  that  the  Christian  man 

Is  holier  than  the  Jewish  priest. 

Chase  back  the  shadows,  gray  and  old, 

Of  the  dead  ages,  from  his  way, 
And  let  his  hopeful  eyes  behold 

The  dawn  of  thy  millennial  day  ;  — 

That  day  when  fettered  livnb  and  mind 
Shall  know  the  truth  which  maketh  free, 

And  he  alone  who  loves  his  kind 
Shall,  childlike,  claim  the  love  of  Thee ! 


212  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


YORKTOWN.88 


Yorktown's  ruins,  ranked  and  still, 
Two  lines  stretch  far  o'er  vale  and  hill  : 
Who  curbs  his  steed  at  head  of  one  ? 
Hark  !  the  low  murmur  :  Washington  ! 
Who  bends  his  keen,  approving  glance 
Where  down  the  gorgeous  line  of  France 
Shine  knightly  star  and  plume  of  snow  ? 
Thou  too  art  victor,  Rochambeau  ! 

The  earth  which  bears  this  calm  array 
Shook  with  the  war-charge  yesterday, 
Ploughed  deep  with  hurrying  hoof  and  wheel, 
Shot-sown  and  bladed  thick  with  steel  ; 
October's  clear  and  noonday  sun 
Paled  in  the  breath-smoke  of  the  gun, 
And  down  night's  double  blackness  fell, 
Like  a  dropped  star,  the  blazing  shell. 

Now  all  is  hushed  ;  the  gleaming  lines 
Stand  moveless  as  the  neighboring  pines  ; 
While  through  them,  sullen,  grim,  and  slow, 
The  conquered  hosts  of  England  go  : 
O'Hara's  brow  belies  his  dress, 
Gay  Tarleton's  troop  rides  bannerless  : 
Shout,  from  thy  fired  and  wasted  homes, 
Thy  scourge,  Virginia,  captive  comes  ! 

Nor  thou  alone  :  with  one  glad  voice 
Let  all  thy  sister  States  rejoice  ; 


YORK  TOWN.  213 

Let  Freedom,  in  whatever  clime 

She  waits  with  sleepless  eye  her  time, 

Shouting  from  cave  and  mountain  wood 

Make  glad  her  desert  solitude, 

While  they  who  hunt  her  quail  with  fear  ; 

The  New  World's  chain  lies  broken  here  ! 


But  who  are  they  who,  cowering,  wait 
Within  the  shattered  fortress  gate  ? 
Dark  tillers  of  Virginia's  soil, 
Classed  with  the  battle's  common  spoil, 
With  household  stuffs,  and  fowl,  and  swine, 
With  Indian  weed  and  planters'  wine, 
With  stolen  beeves  and  foraged  corn,  — 
Are  they  not  men,  Virginian  born  ? 

O,  veil  your  faces,  young  and  brave  ! 
Sleep,  Scammel,  in  thy  soldier  grave  ! 
Sons  of  the  Northland,  ye  who  set 
Stout  hearts  against  the  bayonet, 
And  pressed  with  steady  footfall  near 
The  moated  battery's  blazing  tier, 
Turn  your  scarred  faces  from  the  sight, 
Let  shame  do  homage  to  the  right ! 

Lo !  threescore  years  have  passed  ;  and  where 
The  Gallic  timbrel  stirred  the  air, 
With  Northern  drum-roll,  and  the  clear, 
Wild  horn-blow  of  the  mountaineer, 
While  Britain  grounded  on  that  plain 
The  arms  she  might  not  lift  again, 
As  abject  as  in  that  old  day 
The  slave  still  toils  his  life  away. 


2i4  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

O,  fields  still  green  and  fresh  in  story, 

Old  days  of  pride,  old  names  of  glory, 

Old  marvels  of  the  tongue  and  pen, 

Old  thoughts  which  stirred  the  hearts  of  men, 

Ye  spared  the  wrong  ;  and  over  all 

Behold  the  avenging  shadow  fall  ! 

Your  world-wide  honor  stained  with  shame,  — 

Your  freedom's  self  a  hollow  name  ! 

Where  's  now  the  flag  of  that  old  war  ? 

Where  flows  its  stripe  ?     Where  burns  its  star  ? 

Bear  witness,  Palo  Alto's  day, 

Dark  Vale  of  Palms,  red  Monterey, 

Where  Mexic  Freedom,  young  and  weak, 

Fleshes  the  Northern  eagle's  beak  : 

Symbol  of  terror  and  despair, 

Of  chains  and  slaves,  go  seek  it  there  ! 

Laugh,  Prussia,  midst  thy  iron  ranks  ! 
Laugh,  Russia,  from  thy  Neva's  banks 
Brave  sport  to  see  the  fledgling  born 
Of  Freedom  by  its  parent  torn  ! 
Safe  now  is  Speilberg's  dungeon  cell, 
Safe  drear  Siberia's  frozen  hell : 
With  Slavery's  flag  o'er  both  unrolled, 
What  of  the  New  World  fears  the  Old  ? 


LINES, 

WRITTEN   IN   THE   BOOK   OF  A    FRIEND. 

ON  page  of  thine  I  cannot  trace 
The  cold  and  heartless  commonplace,  — 
A  statue's  fixed  and  marble  grace. 


LINES. 

For  ever  as  these  lines  I  penned, 

Still  with  the  thought  of  thee  will  blend 

That  of  some  loved  and  common  friend,  — 

Who  in  life's  desert  track  has  made 
His  pilgrim  tent  with  mine,  or  strayed 
Beneath  the  same  remembered  shade. 

And  hence  my  pen  unfettered  moves 
In  freedom  which  the  heart  approves,  — 
The  negligence  which  friendship  loves. 

And  wilt  thou  prize  my  poor  gift  less 

For  simple  air  and  rustic  dress, 

And  sign  of  haste  and  carelessness  ?  — 

O,  more  than  specious  counterfeit 

Of  sentiment  or  studied  wit, 

A  heart  like  thine  should  value  it. 

Yet  half  I  fear  my  gift  will  be 
Unto  thy  book,  if  not  to  thee, 
Of  more  than  doubtful  courtesy. 

A  banished  name  from  fashion's  sphere, 

A  lay  unheard  of  Beauty's  ear, 

Forbid,  disowned,  —  what  do  they  here  ?  — 

Upon  my  ear  not  all  in  vain 

Came  the  sad  captive's  clanking  chain,  — 

The  groaning  from  his  bed  of  pain. 

And  sadder  still,  I  saw  the  woe 

Which  only  wounded  spirits  know 

When  Pride's  strong  footsteps  o'er  them  go. 


2I5 


2i6  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

Spurned  not  alone  in  walks  abroad, 
But  from  the  "  temples  of  the  I_ord  " 
Thrust  out  apart,  like  things  abhorred. 

Deep  as  I  felt,  and  stern  and  strong, 

In  words  which  Prudence  smothered  long, 

My  soul  spoke  out  against  the  wrong  ; 

Not  mine  alone  the  task  to  speak 
Of  comfort  to  the  poor  and  weak, 
And  dry  the  tear  on  Sorrow's  cheek ; 

But,  mingled  in  the  conflict  warm, 
To  pour  the  fiery  breath  of  storm 
Through  the  harsh  trumpet  of  Reform ; 


To  brave  Opinion's  settled  frown, 
From  ermined  robe  and  saintly  gown, 
While  wrestling  reverenced  Error  down. 

Founts  gushed  beside  my  pilgrim  way, 
Cool  shadows  on  the  greensward  lay, 
Flowers  swung  upon  the  bending  spray. 

And,  broad  and  bright,  on  either  hand. 
Stretched  the  green  slopes  of  Fairy-land, 
With  Hope's  eternal  sunbow  spanned ; 

Whence  voices  called  me  like  the  flow, 
Which  on  the  listener's  ear  will  grow, 
Of  forest  streamlets  soft  and  low. 

And  gentle  eyes,  which  still  retain 
Their  picture  on  the  heart  and  brain, 
Smiled,  beckoning  from  that  path  of  pain. 


LINES. 

In  vain  !  —  nor  dream,  nor  rest,  nor  pause 
Remain  for  him  who  round  him  draws 
The  battered  mail  of  Freedom's  cause. 


From  youthful  hopes,  —  from  each  green  spot 
Of  young  Romance,  and  gentle  Thought, 
Where  storm  and  tumult  enter  not,  — 

From  each  fair  altar,  where  belong 
The  offerings  Love  requires  of  Song 
In  homage  to  her  bright-eyed  throng, — 

With  soul  and  strength,  with  heart  and  hand, 
I  turned  to  Freedom's  struggling  band, — 
f  o  the  sad  Helots  of  our  land. 

What  marvel  then  that  Fame  should  turn 
Her  notes  of  praise  to  those  of  scorn,— 
Her  gifts  reclaimed,  — her  smiles  withdrawn  ? 

What  matters  it !  —  a  few  years  more, 
Life's  surge  so  restless  heretofore 
Shall  break  upon  the  unknown  shore ! 

In  that  far  land  shall  disappear 

The  shadows  which  we  follow  here, — 

The  mist-wreaths  of  our  atmosphere  t 

Before  no  work  of  mortal  hand, 
Of  human  will  or  strength  expand 
The  pearl  gates  of  the  Better  Land  ; 

Alone  in  that  great  love  which  gave 
Life  to  the  sleeper  of  the  grave, 
Resteth  the  power  to  "  seek  and  save." 


217 


218  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

Yet,  if  the  spirit  gazing  through 

The  vista  of  the  past  can  view 

One  deed  to  Heaven  and  virtue  true,  — 

If  through  the  wreck  of  wasted  powers, 
Of  garlands  wreathed  from  Folly's  bowers, 
Of  idle  aims  and  misspent  hours,  — 

The  eye  can  note  one  sacred  spot 

By  Pride  and  Self  profaned  not,  — 

A  green  place  in  the  waste  of  thought,  — 

Where  deed  or  word  hath  rendered  less 
"  The  sum  of  human  wretchedness," 
And  gratitude  looks  forth  to  bless,  — 

The  simple  burst  of  tenderest  feeling 
From  sad  hearts  worn  by  evil-dealing, 
For  blessing  on  the  hand  of  healing,  — 

Better  than  Glory's  pomp  will  be 
That  green  and  blessed  spot  to  me,  — 
A  palm-shade  in  Eternity !  — 

Something  of  Time  which  may  invite 
The  purified  and  spiritual  sight 
To  rest  on  with  a  calm  delight. 

And  when  the  summer  winds  shall  sweep 
With  their  light  wings  my  place  of  sleep. 
And  mosses  round  my  headstone  creep,  — • 

If  still,  as  Freedom's  rallying  sign, 
Upon  the  young  heart's  altars  shine 
The  very  fires  they  caught  from  mine,  — 


219 


3f  words  my  lips  once  uttered  still, 
In  the  calm  faith  and  steadfast  will 
Of  other  hearts,  their  work  fulfil,  — 

Perchance  with  joy  the  soul  may  learn 

These  tokens,  and  its  eye  discern 

The  fires  which  on  those  altars  burn,  — 

A  marvellous  joy  that  even  then, 

The  spirit  hath  its  life  again, 

In  the  strong  hearts  of  mortal  men. 

Take,  lady,  then,  the  gift  I  bring, 

No  gay  and  graceful  offering,  — 

No  flower-smile  of  the  laughing  spring. 

Midst  the  green  buds  of  Youth's  fresh  May? 
With  Fancy's  leaf-enwoven  bay, 
My  sad  and  sombre  gift  I  lay. 

And  if  it  deepens  in  thy  mind 

A  sense  of  suffering  human-kind,  — 

The  outcast  and  the  spirit-blind  : 

» 

Oppressed  and  spoiled  on  every  side, 
By  Prejudice,  and  Scorn,  and  Pride, 
r-ife's  common  courtesies  denied  ; 

Sad  mothers  mourning  o'er  their  trust, 
Children  by  want  and  misery  nursed, 
Tasting  life's  bitter  cup  at  first  ; 

If  to  their  strong  appeals  which  come 
From  fireless  hearth,  and  crowded  room, 
And  the  close  alley's  noisome  gloom,  — 


220  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

Though  dark  the  hands  upraised  to  thee 

In  mute  beseeching  agony, 

Thou  lend'st  thy  woman's  sympathy,  — 

Not  vainly  on  thy  gentle  shrine, 

Where  Love,  and  Mirth,  and  Friendship  twine 

Their  varied  gifts,  I  offer  mine. 


TVT  OW,  joy  and  thanks  forevermore  ! 
*  ^      The  dreary  night  has  wellnigh  passed, 
The  slumbers  of  the  North  are  o'er, — 
The  giant  stands  erect  at  last ! 

More  than  we  hoped  in  that  dark  time, 
When,  faint  with  watching,  few  and  worn, 

We  saw  no  welcome  day-star  climb 
The  cold  gray  pathway  of  the  morn  ! 

O  weary  hours  !  O  night  of  years  ! 

What  storms  our  darkling  pathway  swept, 
Where,  beating  back  our  thronging  fears, 

By  Faith  alone  our  march  we  kept. 

How  jeered  the  scoffing  crowd  behind, 
How  mocked  before  the  tyrant  train, 

As,  one  by  one,  the  true  and  kind 
Fell  fainting  in  our  path  of  pain  ! 


22  r 

They  died,  —  their  brave  hearts  breaking  slow,  — 

But,  self-forgetful  to  the  last, 
In  words  of  cheer  and  bugle  blow 

Their  breath  upon  the  darkness  passed. 

A  mighty  host,  on  either  hand, 

Stood  waiting  for  the  dawn  of  day 
To  crush  like  reeds  our  feeble  band  ; 

The  morn  has  come,  —  and  where  are  they  > 

Troop  after  troop  their  line  forsakes  ; 

With  peace-white  banners  waving  free, 
And  from  our  own  the  glad  shout  breaks, 

Of  Freedom  and  Fraternity  ! 

Like  mist  before  the  growing  light, 

The  hostile  cohorts  melt  away  ; 
Our  frowning  foemen  of  the  night 

Are  brothers  at  the  dawn  of  day ! 

As  unto  these  repentant  ones 

We  open  wide  our  toil-worn  ranks, 
Along  our  line  a  murmur  runs 

Of  song,  and  praise,  and  grateful  thanks. 

Sound  for  the  onset !  —  Blast  on  blast ! 

Till  Slavery's  minions  cower  and  quail ; 
One  charge  of  fire  shall  drive  them  fast 

Like  chaff  before  our  Northern  gale  ! 

O  prisoners  in  your  house  of  pain, 

Dumb,  toiling  millions,  bound  and  sold, 

Look  !  stretched  o'er  Southern  vale  and  plain, 
The  Lord's  delivering  hand  behold  ! 


222  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

Above  the  tyrant's  pride  of  power, 
His  iron  gates  and  guarded  wall, 

The  bolts  which  shattered  Shinar's  tower 
Hang,  smoking,  for  a  fiercer  fall. 

Awake  !  awake  !  my  Fatherland  ! 

It  is  thy  Northern  light  that  shines  ; 
This  stirring  inarch  of  Freedom's  band 

The  storm-song  of  thy  mountain  pines. 

Wake,  dwellers  where  the  day  expires  ! 

And  hear,  in  winds  that  sweep  your  lakes 
And  fan  your  prairies'  roaring  fires, 

The  signal-call  that  Freedom  makes  ! 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  SHIPLEY. 

GONE  to  thy  Heavenly  Father's  rest  ! 
The  flowers  of  Eden  round  thee  blowing, 
And  on  thine  ear  the  murmurs  blest 

Of  Siloa's  waters  softly  flowing  ! 
Beneath  that  Tree  of  Life  which  gives 
To  all  the  earth  its  healing  leaves 
In  the  white  robe  of  angels  clad, 

And  wandering  by  that  sacred  river, 
Whose  streams  of  holiness  make  glad 

The  city  of  our  God  forever  ! 

Gentlest  of  spirits  !  —  not  for  thee 

Our  tears  are  shed,  our  sighs  are  given  ; 

Why  mourn  to  know  thou  art  a  free 
Partaker  of  the  joys  of  Heaven  ? 


IN  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  SHIPLEY.      223 

Finished  thy  work,  and  kept  thy  faith 
In  Christian  firmness  unto  death  ; 
And  beautiful  as  sky  and  earth, 

When  autumn's  sky  is  downward  going 
The  blessed  memory  of  thy  worth 

Around  thy  place  of  slumber  glowing  ! 

But  woe  for  us  !  who  linger  still 

With  feebler  strength  and  hearts  less  lowly, 
And  minds  less  steadfast  to  the  will 

Of  Him  whose  every  work  is  holy. 
For  not  like  thine,  is  crucified 
The  spirit  of  our  human  pride  : 
And  at  the  bondman's  tale  of  woe, 

And  for  the  outcast  and  forsaken, 
Not  warm  like  thine,  but  cold  and  slow, 

Our  weaker  sympathies  awaken. 

Darkly  upon  our  struggling  way 

The  storm  of  human  hate  is  sweeping  ; 
Hunted  and  branded,  and  a  prey, 

Our  watch  amidst  the  darkness  keeping, 
O  for  that  hidden  strength  which  can 
Nerve  unto  death  the  inner  man  ! 
O  for  thy  spirit,  tried  and  true, 

And  constant  in  the  hour  of  trial, 
Prepared  to  suffer,  or  to  do, 

In  meekness  and  in  self-denial. 

O  for  that  spirit,  meek  and  mild, 

Derided,  spurned,  yet  uncomplaining,  — 

By  man  deserted  and  reviled, 
Yet  faithful  to  its  trust  remaining. 

Still  prompt  and  resolute  to  save 


224 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

From  scourge  and  chain  the  hunted  slave  ; 
Unwavering  in  the  Truth's  defence, 

Even  where  the  fires  of  Hate  were  burning, 
The  unquailing  eye  of  innocence 

Alone  upon  the  oppressor  turning  ! 

O  loved  of  thousands  !  to  thy  grave, 
Sorrowing  of  heart,  thy  brethren  bore  thee. 
The  poor  man  and  the  rescued  slave 

Wept  as  the  broken  earth  closed  o'er  thee  ; 
And  grateful  tears,  like  summer  rain, 
Quickened  its  dying  grass  again  ! 
And  there,  as  to  some  pilgrim-shrine, 

Shall  come  the  outcast  and  the  lowly, 
Of  gentle  deeds  and  words  of  thine 

Recalling  memories  sweet  and  holy  ! 

O  for  the  death  the  righteous  die  ! 

An  end,  like  autumn's  day  declining, 
On  human  hearts,  as  on  the  sky, 

With  holier,  tenderer  beauty  shining  ; 
As  to  the  parting  soul  were  given 
The  radiance  of  an  opening  heaven  ! 
As  if  that  pure  and  blessed  light, 

From  off  the  Eternal  altar  flowing, 
Were  bathing,  in  its  upward  flight, 

The  spirit  to  its  worship  going  ! 


TO  A   SOUTHERN  STATESMAN. 


225 


TO    A    SOUTHERN   STATESMAN. 
1846. 

IS  this  thy  voice,  whose  treble  notes  of  fear 
Wail  in  the  wind  ?     And  dost  thou  shake  to  hear, 
Acteeon-like,  the  bay  of  thine  own  hounds, 
Spurning  the  leash,  and  leaping  o'er  their  bounds  ? 
Sore-baffled  statesman !  when  thy  eager  hand, 
With  game  afoot,  unslipped  the  hungry  pack, 
To  hunt  down  Freedom  in  her  chosen  land, 
Hidst  thou  no  fear,  that,  erelong,  doubling  back, 
These  dogs  of  thine  might  snuff  on  Slavery's  track  ? 
Where  's  now  the  boast,  which  even  thy  guarded  tongue, 
Cold,  calm,  and  proud,  in  the  teeth  o'  the  Senate  flung, 
O'er  the  fulfilment  of  thy  baleful  plan, 
Like  Satan's  triumph  at  the  fall  of  man  ? 
How  stood'st  thou  then,  thy  feet  on  Freedom  planting, 
And  pointing  to  the  lurid  heaven  afar, 
Whence  all  could  see,  through  the  south  windows  slant 
ing, 

Crimson  as  blood,  the  beams  of  that  Lone  Star  ! 
The  Fates  are  just  ;  they  give  us  but  our  own  ; 
Nemesis  ripens  what  our  hands  have  sown. 
There  is  an  Eastern  story,  not  unknown, 
Doubtless,  to  thee,  of  one  whose  magic  skill 
Called  demons  up  his  water-jars  to  fill ; 
Deftly  and  silently,  they  did  his  will, 
But,  when  the  task  was  done,  kept  pouring  still. 
In  vain  with  spell  and  charm  the  wizard  wrought, 
Faster  and  faster  were  the  buckets  brought, 
Higher  and  higher  rose  the  flood  around, 


226  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

Till  the  fiends  clapped  their  hands  above  their  master 

drowned  ! 

So,  Carolinian,  it  may  prove  with  thee, 
For  God  still  overrules  man's  schemes,  and  takes 
Craftiness  in  its  self-set  snare,  and  makes 
The  wrath  of  man  to  praise  Him.     It  may  be, 
That  the  roused  spirits  of  Democracy 
May  leave  to  freer  States  the  same  wide  door 
Through  which  thy  slave-cursed  Texas  entered  in, 
From  out  the  blood  and  fire,  the  wrong  and  sin, 
Of  the  stormed  city  and  the  ghastly  plain, 
Beat  by  hot  hail,  and  wet  with  bloody  rain, 
A  myriad-handed  Aztec  host  may  pour, 
And  swarthy  South  with  pallid  North  combine 
Back  on  thyself  to  turn  thy  dark  design. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  ON  THE  ADOPTION  OF  PINCKNEY'S  RESOLU 
TIONS,  IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  REPRESENTATIVES,  AND 
THE  PASSAGE  OF  CALHOUN'S  "  BILL  FOR  EXCLUDING 
PAPERS,  WRITTEN  OR  PRINTED,  TOUCHING  THE  SUB 
JECT  OF  SLAVERY  FROM  THE  U.  S.  POST-OFFICE,"  IN 
THE  SENATE  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES. 

A  /TEN  of  the  North-land!  where 's  the  manly  spirit 
1V±  Qf  f^  true-hearted  and  the  unshackled  gone? 
Sons  of  old  freemen,  do  we  but  inherit 

Their  names  alone  ? 

Is  the  old  Pilgrim  spirit  quenched  within  us, 

Stoops  the  strong  manhood  of  our  souls  so  low, 
That  Mammon's  lure  or  Party's  wile  can  win  us 

To  silence  now  ? 


LINES.  227 

Now,  when  our  land  to  ruin's  brink  is  verging, 

In  God's  name,  let  us  speak  while  there  is  time  ! 
Now,  when  the  padlocks  for  our  lips  are  forging, 

Silence  is  crime ! 

What !  shall  we  henceforth  humbly  ask  as  favors 

Rights  all  our  own?     In  madness  shall  we  barter, 
For  treacherous  peace,  the  freedom  Nature  gave  us, 

God  and  our  charter  ? 

Here  shall  the  statesman  forge  his  human  fetters, 

Here  the  false  jurist  human  rights  deny, 
And,  in  the  church,  their  proud  and  skilled  abettors 

Make  truth  a  lie  ? 

Torture  the  pages  of  the  hallowed  Bible, 

To  sanction  crime,  and  robbery,  and  blood  ? 
And,  in  Oppression's  hateful  service,  libel 

Both  man  and  God  ? 

Shall  our  New  England  stand  erect  no  longer, 

But  stoop  in  chains  upon  her  downward  way, 
Thicker  to  gather  on  her  limbs  and  stronger 

Day  after  day  ? 

O  no  ;  methinks  from  all  her  wild,  green  mountains,  — 

From  valleys  where  her  slumbering  fathers  lie,  — 
From  her  blue  rivers  and  her  welling  fountains, 

And  clear,  cold  sky,  — 

From  her  rough  coast,  and  isles,  which  hungry  Ocean 

Gnaws  with  his  surges,  —  from  the  fisher's  skiff, 
With  white  sail  swaying  to  the  billows'  motion 

Round  rock  and  cliff,  — 


228  VOICES   OF  FREEDOM. 

From  the  free  fireside  of  her  unbought  farmer,  — 
From  her  free  laborer  at  his  loom  and  wheel,  — 
From  the  brown  smith-shop,  where,  beneath  the  hammer, 

Rings  the  red  steel,  — 

From  each  and  all,  if  God  hath  not  forsaken 

Our  land,  and  left  us  to  an  evil  choice, 
Loud  as  the  summer  thunderbolt  shall  waken 

A  People's  voice. 

Startling  and  stern  !  the  Northern  winds  shall  bear  it 

Over  Potomac's  to  St.  Mary's  wave  ; 
And  buried  Freedom  shall  awake  to  hear  it 

Within  her  grave. 

O,  let  that  voice  go  forth  !     The  bondman  sighing 

By  Santee's  wave,  in  Mississippi's  cane, 
Shall  feel  the  hope,  within  his  bosom  dying, 

Revive  again. 

Let  it  go  forth  !     The  millions  who  are  gazing 

Sadly  upon  us  from  af.ir  shall  smile, 
And  unto  God  devout  thanksgiving  raising, 

Bless  us  the  while. 

O  for  your  ancient  freedom,  pure  and  holy, 
For  the  deliverance  of  a  groaning  earth, 
For  the  wronged  captive,  bleeding,  crushed,  and  lowly, 

Let  it  go  forth  ! 

Sons  of  the  best  of  fathers !  will  ye  falter 

With  all  they  left  ye  perilled  and  at  stake  ? 
Ho  !  once  again  on  Freedom's  holy  altar 

The  fire  awake  i 


CURSE  OF  THE  CHARTER-BREAKERS.    229 

Prayer-strengthened  for  the  trial,  come  together, 

Put  on  the  harness  for  the  moral  fight, 
And,  with  the  blessing  of  your  Heavenly  Father, 

MAINTAIN  THE  RIGHT  ! 


THE  CURSE  OF  THE  CHARTER-BREAKERS.37 

T  N  Westminster's  royal  halls, 

•J-    Robed  in  their  pontificals, 
England's  ancient  prelates  stood 
For  the  people's  right  and  good. 

Closed  around  the  waiting  crowd, 
Dark  and  still,  like  winter's  cloud  ; 
King  and  council,  lord  and  knight, 
Squire  and  yeoman,  stood  in  sight,  — • 

Stood  to  hear  the  priest  rehearse, 
In  God's  name,  the  Church's  curse, 
By  the  tapers  round  them  lit, 
Slowly,  sternly  uttering  it. 

"  Right  of  voice  in  framing  laws, 
Right  of  peers  to  try  each  cause ; 
Peasant  homestead,  mean  and  small, 
Sacred  as  the  monarch's  hall,  — 

"  Whoso  lays  his  hand  on  these, 
England's  ancient  liberties,  — 
Whoso  breaks,  by  word  or  deed, 
England's  vow  at  Runnymede,  — 


230  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

"  Be  he  Prince  or  belted  knight, 
Whatsoe'er  his  rank  or  might, 
If  the  highest,  then  the  worst, 
Let  him  live  and  die  accursed. 

"  Thou,  who  to  thy  Church  hast  gfven 
Keys  alike,  of  hell  and  heaven, 
Make  our  word  and  witness  sure, 
Let  the  curse  we  speak  endure ! " 

Silent,  while  that  curse  was  said, 
Every  bare  and  listening  head 
Bowed  in  reverent  awe,  and  then 
All  the  people  said,  Amen  ! 

Seven  times  the  bells  have  tolled, 
For  the  centuries  gray  and  old, 
Since  that  stoled  and  mitred  band 
Cursed  the  tyrants  of  their  land. 

Since  the  priesthood,  like  a  tower, 
Stood  between  the  poor  and  power ; 
And  the  wronged  and  trodden  down 
Blessed  the  abbot's  shaven  crown. 

Gone,  thank  God,  their  wizard  spell, 
Lost,  their  keys  of  heaven  and  hell ; 
Yet  I  sigh  for  men  as  bold 
As  those  bearded  priests  of  old. 

Now,  too  oft  the  priesthood  wait 
At  the  threshold  of  the  state,  — 
Waiting  for  the  beck  and  nod 
Of  its  power  as  law  and  God. 


CURSE  OF  THE  CHARTER-BREAKERS.    231 

Fraud  exults,  while  solemn  words 
Sanctify  his  stolen  hoards  ; 
Slavery  laughs,  while  ghostly  lips 
Bless  his  manacles  and  whips. 

Not  on  them  the  poor  rely, 

Not  to  them  looks  liberty, 

Who  with  fawning  falsehood  cower 

To  the  wrong,  when  clothed  with  power. 

O,  to  see  them  meanly  cling, 
Round  the  master,  round  the  king, 
Sported  with,  and  sold  and  bought,  — 
Pitifuller  sight  is  not ! 

Tell  me  not  that  this  must  be  : 
God's  true  priest  is  always  free  ; 
Free,  the  needed  truth  to  speak, 
Right  the  wronged  and  raise  the  weak. 

Not  to  fawn  on  wealth  and  state, 
Leaving  Lazarus  at  the  gate,  — 
Not  to  peddle  creeds  like  wares, j 
Not  to  mutter  hireling  prayers,  — 

Nor  to  paint  the  new  life's  bliss 
On  the  sable  ground  of  this,  — 
Golden  streets  for  idle  knave, 
Sabbath  rest  for  weary  slave  I 

Not  for  words  and  works  like  these, 
Priest  of  God,  thy  mission  is  ; 
But  to  make  earth's  desert  glad, 
In  its  Eden  greenness  clad ; 


232  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

And  to  level  manhood  bring 
Lord  and  peasant,  serf  and  king ; 
And  the  Christ  of  God  to  find 
In  the  humblest  of  thy  kind  ! 

Thine  to  work  as  well  as  pray, 
Clearing  thorny  wrongs  away  ; 
Plucking  up  the  weeds  of  sin, 
Letting  heaven's  warm  sunshine  in, 

Watching  on  the  hills  of  Faith  ; 
Listening  what  the  spirit  saith, 
Of  the  dim-seen  light  afar, 
Growing  like  a  nearing  star. 

God's  interpreter  art  thou, 
To  the  waiting  ones  below  ; 
'Twixt  them  and  its  light  midway 
Heralding  the  better  day,  — 

Catching  gleams  of  temple  spires, 
Hearing  notes  of  angel  choirs, 
Where,  as  yet  unseen  of  them, 
Comes  the  New  Jerusalem  ? 

Like  the  seer  of  Patmos  gazing, 
On  the  glory  downward  blazing ; 
Till  upon  Earth's  grateful  sod 
Rests  the  City  of  our  God  ! 


THE  SLAVES  OF  MARTINIQUE.          233 


THE   SLAVES   OF   MARTINIQUE. 

SUGGESTED    BY  A  DAGUERREOTYPE    FROM   A   FRENCH 
ENGRAVING. 

"D  EAMS  of  noon,  like  burning  lances,  through  the 
-L'       tree-tops  flash  and  glisten, 

As  she  stands  before  her  lover,  with  raised  face  to  look 
and  listen. 

Dark,  but  comely,  like  the  maiden  in  the  ancient  Jewish 

song: 
Scarcely  has  the  toil  of  task-fields  done  her  graceful 

beauty  wrong. 

He,  the  strong  one  and  the  manly,  with  the  vassal's  garb 

and  hue, 
Holding  still  his  spirit's  birthright,  to  his  higher  nature 

true  ; 

Hiding  deep  the  strengthening  purpose  of  a  freeman  in 

his  heart, 
As  the  greegree  holds  his  Fetich  from  the  white  man's 

gaze  apart. 

Ever  foremost  of  his  comrades,  when  the  driver's  morn 
ing  horn 

Calls  away  to  stifling  mill-house,  to  the  fields  of  cane 
and  corn  : 


234  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

Fall  the  keen  and  burning  lashes  never  on  his  back  or 

limb  ; 
Scarce  with  look  or  word  of  censure,  turns  the  driver 

unto  him. 

Yet,  his  brow  is  always  thoughtful,  and  his  eye  is  hard 

and  stern  ; 
Slavery's  last  and  humblest  lesson  he  has  never  deigned 

to  learn. 

And,  at  evening,  when  his  comrades  dance  before  their 

master's  door, 
Folding  arms  and  knitting  forehead,  stands  he  silent 

evermore. 

God  be  praised  for  every  instinct  which  rebels  against 

a  lot 
Where  the  brute  survives  the  human,  and  man's  upright 

form  is  not  ! 

As  the  serpent-like  bejuco  winds  his   spiral  fold  on 

fold 
Round  the  tall  and  stately  ceiba,  till  it  withers  in  his 

hold  ;  — 

Slow  decays  the  forest  monarch,  closer  girds  the  fell 

embrace, 
Till  the  tree  is  seen  no  longer,  and  the  vine  is  in  its 

place,  — 

So  a  base  and  bestial  nature  round  the  vassal's  man 
hood  twines, 

And  the  spirit  wastes  beneath  it,  like  the  ceiba  choked 
with  vines. 


THE  SLA  VES  OF  MA  R  TIArfQ  UE.          235 

God  is  Love,  saith  the  Evangel ;  and  our  world  of  woe 

and  sin 
Is  made  light  and  happy  only  when  a  Love  is  shining 

in. 

Ye  whose  lives  are  free  as  sunshine,  finding,  wheresoe'ef 

ye  roam, 
Smiles  of  welcome,  looks  of  kindness,  making  all  the 

world  like  home ; 

In  the  veins  of  whose  affections  kindred  blood  is  but  a 

part, 
Of  one  kindly  current  throbbing  from  the  universal 

heart ; 

Can  ye  know  the  deeper  meaning  of  a  love  in  Slavery 
nursed, 

Last  flower  of  a  lost  Eden,  blooming  in  that  Soil  ac 
cursed  ? 

Love  of  Home,  and  Love  of  Woman  !  —  dear  to  all,  but 

doubly  dear 
To  the  heart  whose  pulses  elsewhere  measure  only  hate 

and  fear. 

All  around   the   desert   circles,  underneath   a  brazen 

sky, 
Only  one  green  spot  remaining  where  the  dew  is  never 

dry  ! 

From  the  horror  of  that  desert,  from  its  atmosphere  of 

hell, 
Turns  the  fainting  spirit  thither,  as  the  diver  seeks  his 

bell. 


236  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

'T  is  the  fervid  tropic  noontime  ;  faint  and  low  the  sea- 
waves  beat  ; 

Hazy  rise  the  inland  mountains  through  the  glimmer  of 
the  heat,  — 

Where,  through  mingled  leaves  and  blossoms,  arrowy 

sunbeams  flash  and  glisten, 
Speaks  her  lover  to  the  slave-girl,  and  she  lifts  her  head 

to  listen :  — 

"  We  shall  live  as  slaves  no  longer  !     Freedom's  hour  is 

close  at  hand  ! 
Rocks  her  bark  upon  the  waters,  rests  the  boat  upon  the 

strand  ! 

"  I  have  seen  the  Haytien  Captain  ;   I  have  seen  his 

swarthy  crew, 
Haters   of  the   pallid   faces,  to   their  race   and   color 

true. 

"  They  have  sworn  to  wait  our  coming  till  the  night  has 

passed  its  noon, 
And  the  gray  and   darkening  waters  roll  above  the 

sunken  moon  ! " 

O  the  blessed  hope  of  freedom  !  how  with  joy  and  glad 

surprise, 
For  an  instant  throbs  her  bosom,  for  an  instant  beam 

her  eyes  ! 

But  she  looks  across  the  valley,  where  her  mother's  hut 
is  seen, 

Through  the  snowy  bloom  of  coffee,  and  the  lemon- 
leaves  so  green. 


THE  SLAVES  OF  MARTINIQUE.          237 

And  she  answers,  sad  and  earnest :    "  It  were  wrong 

for  thee  to  stay  ; 

God  hath  heard  thy  prayer  for  freedom,  and  his  finger 
,     points  the  way. 

"  Well  I  know  with  what  endurance,  for  the  sake  of  me 

and  mine, 
Thou  hast  borne  too  long  a  burden  never  meant  for' 

souls  like  thine. 

"  Go  ;  and  at  the  hour  of  midnight,  when  our  last  fare 
well  is  o'er, 

Kneeling  on  our  place  of  parting,  I  will  bless  thee  from 
the  shore. 

"  But  for  me,  my  mother,  lying  on  her  sick-bed  all  the 

day, 
Lifts  her  weary  head  to  watch  me,  coming  through  the 

twilight  gray. 

u  Should  I  leave  her  sick  and  helpless,  even  freedom, 

shared  with  thee, 
Would  be  sadder  far  than  bondage,  lonely  toil,  and 

stripes  to  me. 

"For  my  heart  would  die  within  me,  and  my  brain 

would  soon  be  wild  ; 
I  should  hear  my  mother  calling  through  the  twilight 

for  her  child  !  " 

Blazing  upward  from  the  ocean  shines  the  sun  of  morn' 

ing-time, 
Through  the  coffee-trees  in  blossom,  and  green  hedges 

of  the  lime. 


238  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

Side  by  side,  amidst  the  slave-gang,  toil  the  lover  and 

the  maid  ; 
Wherefore  looks  he  o'er  the  waters,  leaning  forward  on 

his  spade  ? 

Sadly  looks  he,  deeply  sighs  he  :    Jt  is  the  Haytien's 

sail  he  sees, 
Like  a  white  cloud  of  the  mountains,  driven  seaward 

by  the  breeze  ! 

But  his  arm  a  light  hand  presses,  and  he  hears  a  low 

voice  call : 
Hate  of  Slavery,  hope  of  Freedom,  Love  is  mightier 

than  all. 


THE    CRISIS. 

WRITTEN  ON  LEARNING  THE  TERMS  OF  THE  TREATY 
WITH  MEXICO. 

A  CROSS   the  Stony  Mountains,  o'er  the  desert's 
**•     drouth  and  sand, 
The  circles  of  our  empire  touch  the  Western  Ocean's 

strand  ; 

From  slumberous  Timpanogos  to  Gila,  wild  and  free, 
Flowing  down  from  Nuevo-Leon  to  California's  sea ; 
And  from  the  mountains  of  the  East  to  Santa  Rosa's 

shore, 
The  eagles  of  Mexitli  shall  beat  the  air  no  more. 

O  Vale  of  Rio  Bravo  !    Let  thy  simple  children  weep  ; 
Close  watch  about  their  holy  fire  let  maids  of  Pecos 
keep; 


THE   CRISIS.  239 

Let  Taos  send  her  cry  across  Sierra  Madre's  pines, 
And  Algodones  toll  her  bells  amidst  her  corn  and  vines  ; 
For  lo  !  the  pale  land-seekers  come,  with  eager  eyes 

of  gain, 
Wide  scattering,  like  the  bison  herds  on  broad  Salada's 

plain. 

Let  Sacramento's  herdsmen  heed  what  sound  the  winds 

bring  down 
Of  footsteps  on  the  crisping  snow,  from  cold  Nevada's 

crown  ! 
Full  hot  and  fast  the  Saxon  rides,  with  rein  of  travel 

slack, 
And,  bending  o'er  his  saddle,  leaves  the  sunrise  at  his 

back  ; 

By  many  a  lonely  river,  and  gorge  of  fir  and  pine, 
On  many  a  wintry  hill-top,  his  nightly  camp-fires  shine. 

O  countrymen  and  brothers  !    that  land  of  lake  and 

plain, 

Of  salt  wastes  alternating  with  valleys  fat  with  grain  ; 
Of  mountains  white  with  winter,  looking  downward, 

cold,  serene, 
On  their  feet  with  spring-vines  tangled  and  lapped  in 

softest  green  ; 
Swift  through  whose  black  volcanic  gates,  o'er  many  a 

sunny  vale, 
Wind-like  the  Arapahoe  sweeps  the  bison's  dusty  trail ! 

Great  spaces  yet  untravelled,  great  lakes  whose  mystic 

shores 

The  Saxon  rifle  never  heard,  nor  dip  of  Saxon  oars  ; 
Great   herds   that  wander  all  unwatched,  wild  steeds 

that  none  have  tamed, 


240  VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 

Strange  fish  in  unknown  streams,  and  birds  the  Saxon 

never  named  ; 
Deep  mines,  dark  mountain  crucibles,  where  Nature's 

chemic  powers 
Work  out  the  Great  Designer's  will ;  —  all  these  ye  say 

are  ours  ! 

Forever  ours !  for  good  or  ill,  on  us  the  burden  lies  ; 

God's  balance,  watched  by  angels,  is  hung  across  the 
skies. 

Shall  Justice,  Truth,  and  Freedom  turn  the  poised  and 
trembling  scale  ? 

Or  shall  the  Evil  triumph,  and  robber  Wrong  pre 
vail? 

Shall  the  broad  land  o'er  which  our  flag  in  starry  splen 
dor  waves 

Forego  through  us  its  freedom,  and  bear  the  tread  of 
slaves  ? 

The  day  is  breaking  in  the  East  of  which  the  prophets 

told, 
And  brightens  up  the  sky  of  Time  the  Christian  Age 

of  Gold  ; 
Old  Might  to  Right  is  yielding,  battle  blade  to  clerkly 

pen, 
Earth's  monarchs  are  her  peoples,  and  her  serfs  stand 

up  as  men  ; 

The  isles  rejoice  together,  in  a  day  are  nations  born, 
And  the  slave  walks  free  in  Tunis,  and  by  Stamboul's 

Golden  Horn ! 

Is  this,  O  countrymen  of  mine  !  a  day  for  us  to  sow 
The  soil  of  new-gained  empire  with  slavery's  seeds  of 
woe? 


THE   CRISIS.  241 

To  feed  with  our  fresh  life-blood  the  Old  World's  cast- 
off  crime, 

Dropped,  like  some  monstrous  early  birth,  from  the 
tired  lap  of  Time  ? 

To  run  anew  the  evil  race  the  old  lost  nations  ran, 

And  die  like  them  of  unbelief  of  God,  and  wrong  of 
man  ? 

Great  Heaven  !  Is  this  our  mission  ?  End  in  this  the 
prayers  and  tears, 

The  toil,  the  strife,  the  watchings  of  our  younger, 
better  years  ? 

Still  as  the  Old  Word  rolls  in  light,  shall  ours  in  shadow 
turn, 

A  beamless  Chaos,  cursed  of  God,  through  outer  dark 
ness  borne  ? 

Where  the  far  nations  looked  for  light,  a  blackness  in 
the  air? 

Where  for  words  of  hope  they  listened,  the  long  wail 
of  despair  ? 

The  Crisis  presses  on  us ;  face  to  face  with  us  it  stands, 
With  solemn  lips  of  question,  like  the  Sphinx  in  Egypt's 

sands  ! 

This  day  we  fashion  Destiny,  our  web  of  Fate  we  spin  ; 
This  clay  for  all  hereafter  choose  we  holiness  or  sin  ; 
Even  now  from  starry  Gerizim,  or  Ebal's  cloudy  crown, 
We  call  the  dews  of  blessing  or  the  bolts  of  cursing 

down  ! 

By  all  for  which  the  martyrs   bore  their  agony  and 

shame  ; 
By  all   the  warning  words  of  truth   with  which   the 

prophets  came 


242 


VOICES  OF  FREEDOM. 


By  the  Future  which  awaits  us  ;  by  all  the  hopes  which 

cast 
Their  faint  and  trembling  beams  across  the  blackness 

of  the  Past  ; 
And  by  the  blessed  thought  of  Him  who  for  Earth's 

freedom  died, 
O   my  people !    O    my  brothers  !    let   us   choose   the 

righteous  side. 

So  shall  the  Northern  pioneer  go  joyful  on  his  way  ; 
To  wed  Penobscot's  waters  to  San  Francisco's  bay ; 
To  make  the  rugged  places  smooth,  and  sow  the  vales 

with  grain  ; 

And  bear,  with  Liberty  and  Law,  the  Bible  in  his  train  : 
The  mighty  West  shall  bless  the  East,  and  sea  shall 

answer  sea, 
And  mountain  unto  mountain  call,  PRAISE  GOD,  FOR 

WE   ARE   FREE  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE    KNIGHT    OF    ST. 


T^  RE  down  yon  blue  Carpathian  hilk 
•*•—'     The  sun  shall  sink  again, 
Farewell  to  life  and  all  its  ills, 
Farewell  to  cell  and  chain. 

These  prison  shades  are  dark  and  cold,  - 

But  darker  far  than  they 
The  shadow  of  a  sorrow  old 

Is  on  my  heart  alway. 

For  since  the  day  when  Warkworth  wood 

Closed  o'er  my  steed  and  I, 
An  alien  from  my  name  and  blood, 

A  weed  cast  out  to  die,  — 

When,  looking  back  in  sunset  light, 

I  saw  her  turret  gleam, 
And  from  its  casement,  far  and  white, 

Her  sign  of  farewell  stream, 


246  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Like  one  who,  from  some  desert  shore, 
Doth  home's  green  isles  descry, 

And,  vainly  longing,  gazes  o'er 
The  waste  of  wave  and  sky ; 

So  from  the  desert  of  my  fate 

I  gaze  across  the  past ; 
Forever  on  life's  dial-plate 

The  shade  is  backward  cast ! 

I  Ve  wandered  wide  from  shore  to  shore, 
I  've  knelt  at  many  a  shrine  ; 

And  bowed  me  to  the  rocky  floor 
Where  Bethlehem's  tapers  shine ; 

And  by  the  Holy  Sepulchre 

I  Ve  pledged  my  knightly  sword 

To  Christ,  his  blessed  Church,  and  her, 
The  Mother  of  our  Lord. 

O,  vain  the  vow,  and  vain  the  strife ! 

How  vain  do  all  things  seem! 
My  soul  is  in  the  past,  and  life 

To-day  is  but  a  dream  ! 

In  vain  the  penance  strange  and  long, 
And  hard  for  flesh  to  bear  ; 

The  prayer,  the  fasting,  and  the  thong 
And  sackcloth  shirt  of  hair. 

The  eyes  of  memory  will  not  sleep,  — - 

Its  ears  are  open  still ; 
And  vigils  with  the  past  they  keep 

Against  my  feeble  will. 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  ST.  JOHN.  247 

And  still  the  loves  and  joys  of  old 

Do  evermore  uprise  ; 
I  see  the  flow  of  locks  of  gold, 

The  shine  of  loving  eyes  1 

Ah  me  !  upon  another's  breast 

Those  golden  locks  recline  ; 
I  see  upon  another  rest 

The  glance  that  once  was  mine. 

"  O  faithless  priest !  —  O  perjured  knight  I" 

I  hear  the  Master  cry  ; 
"  Shut  out  the  vision  from  thy  sight, 

Let  Earth  and  Nature  die. 

"The  Church  of  God  is  now  thy  spouse, 

And  thou  the  bridegroom  art ; 
Then  let  the  burden  of  thy  vows 

Crush  down  thy  human  heart ! " 

In  vain  !     This  heart  its  grief  must  know, 

Till  life  itself  hath  ceased, 
And  falls  beneath  the  selfsame  blow 

The  lover  and  the  priest ! 

O  pitying  Mother!  souls  of  light, 

And  saints,  and  martyrs  old ! 
Pray  for  a  weak  and  sinful  knight, 

A  suffering  man  uphold. 

Then  let  the  Paynim  work  his  will, 

And  death  unbind  my  chain, 
Ere  down  yon  blue  Carpathian  hill 

The  sun  shall  fall  again. 


248  MISCELLANEOUS. 

THE    HOLY    LAND. 

FROM    LAMARTINE. 

I    HAVE  not  felt,  o'er  seas  of  sand, 
The  rocking  of  the  desert  bark ; 
Nor  laved  at  Hebron's  fount  my  hand, 

By  Hebron's  palm-trees  cool  and  dark; 
Nor  pitched  my  tent  at  even-fall, 

On  dust  where  Job  of  old  has  lain, 
Nor  dreamed  beneath  its  canvas  wall 

The  dream  of  Jacob  o'er  again. 
One  vast  world-page  remains  unread  ; 

How  shine  the  stars  in  Chaldea's  sky, 
How  sounds  the  reverent  pilgrim's  tread, 

How  beats  the  heart  with  God  so  nigh! 
How  round  gray  arch  and  column  lone 

The  spirit  of  the  old  time  broods, 
And  sighs  in  all  the  winds  that  moan 

Along  the  sandy  solitudes  ! 

In  thy  tall  cedars,  Lebanon, 

I  have  not  heard  the  nations'  cries, 
Nor  seen  thy  eagles  stooping  down 

Where  buried  Tyre  in  ruin  lies. 
The  Christian's  prayer  I  have  not  said 

In  Tadmor's  temples  of  decay, 
Nor  startled,  with  my  dreary  tread, 

The  waste  where  Memnon's  empire  lay. 

Nor  have  I,  from  thy  hallowed  tide, 
O  Jordan  !  heard  the  low  lament, 


PALESTINE.  249 

Like  that  sad  wail  along  thy  side 

Which  Israel's  mournful  prophet  sent! 

Nor  thrilled  within  that  grotto  lone 

Where,  deep  in  night,  the  Bard  of  Kings 

Felt  hands  of  fire  direct  his  own, 
And  sweep  for  God  the  conscious  strings. 

I  have  not  climbed  to  Olivet, 

Nor  laid  me  where  my  Saviour  lay, 
And  left  his  trace  of  tears  as  yet 

By  angel  eyes  unwept  away  ; 
Nor  watched,  at  midnight's  solemn  time, 

The  garden  where  his  prayer  and  groan, 
Wrung  by  his  sorrow  and  our  crime, 

Rose  to  One  listening  ear  alone. 

I  have  not  kissed  the  rock-hewn  grot 

Where  in  his  Mother's  arms  he  lay 
Nor  knelt  upon  the  sacred  spot 

Where  last  his  footsteps  pressed  the  clay ; 
Nor  looked  on  that  sad  mountain  head, 

Nor  smote  my  sinful  breast,  where  wide 
His  arms  to  fold  the  world  he  spread, 

And  bowed  his  head  to  bless  —  and  died ! 


PALESTINE. 

OLEST  land  of  Judaea  I  thrice  hallowed  of  song, 
*-'  Where  the  holiest  of  memories  pilgrim-like  throng ; 
In  the  shade  of  thy  palms,  by  the  shores  of  thy  sea, 
On  the  hills  of  thy  beauty,  my  heart  is  with  thee. 
ii* 


250 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


With  the  eye  of  a  spirit  I  look  on  that  shore, 
Where  piljrim  and  prophet  have  lingered  before  ; 
With  the  glide  of  a  spirit  I  traverse  the  sod 
Made  bright  by  the  steps  of  the  angels  of  God. 

Blue  sea  of  the  hills  !  — in  my  spirit  I  hear 

Thy  waters,  Genesaret,  chime  on  my  ear ; 

Where  the  Lowly  and  Just  with  the  people  sat  down, 

And  thy  spray  on  the  dust  of  his  sandals  was  thrown. 

"Beyond  are  Bethulia's  mountains  of  green, 
And  the  desolate  hills  of  the  wild  Gadarene ; 
And  I  pause  on  the  goat-crags  of  Tabor  to  see 
The  gleam  of  thy  waters,  O  dark  Galilee  ! 

Hark,  a  sound  in  the  valley  !  where,  swollen  and  strong, 
Thy  river,  O  Kishon,  is  sweeping  along  ; 
Where  the  Canaanite  strove  with  Jehovah  in  vain, 
And  thy  torrent  grew  dark  with  the  blood  of  the  slain. 

There  down  from  his  mountains  stern  Zebulon  came, 
And  Naphtali's  stag,  with  his  eyeballs  of  flame, 
And  the  chariots  of  Jabin  rolled  harmlessly  on, 
For  the  arm  of  the  Lord  was  Abinoam's  son  ! 

There  sleep  the  still  rocks  and  the  caverns  which  rahg 
To  the  song  which  the  beautiful  prophetess  sang, 
When  the  princes  of  Issachar  stood  by  her  side, 
And  the  shout  of  a  host  in  its  triumph  replied. 

Lo,  Bethlehem's  hill-site  before  me  is  seen, 
With  the  mountains  around  and  the  valleys  between  ; 
There  rested  the  shepherds  of  Judah,  and  there 
The  song  of  the  angels  rose  sweet  on  the  air. 


PALESTINE.  251 

And  Bethany's  palm-trees  in  beauty  still  throw 
Their  shadows  at  noon  on  the  ruins  below ; 
But  where  are  the  sisters  who  hastened  to  greet 
The  lowly  Redeemer,  and  sit  at  his  feet  ? 

I  tread  where  the  TWELVE  in  their  wayfaring  trod  ; 
I  stand  where  they  stood  with  the  CHOSEN  OF  GOD,  — 
Where  his  blessing  was  heard  and  his  lessons  were 

taught, 
Where  the  blind  were  restored  and  the  healing  was 

wrought. 

O,  here  with  his  flock  the  sad  Wanderer  came,  — 
These  hills  he  toiled  over  in  grief  are  the  same,  — 
The  founts  where  he  drank  by  the  wayside  still  flow, 
And  the  same  airs  are  blowing  which  breathed  on  his 
brow  ! 

And  throned  on  her  hills  sits  Jerusalem  yet, 
But  with  dust  on  her  forehead,  and  chains  on  her  feet ; 
For  the  crown  of  her  pride  to  the  mocker  hath  gone, 
And  the  holy  Shechinah  is  dark  where  it  shone. 

But  wherefore  this  dream  of  the  earthly  abode 
Of  Humanity  clothed  in  the  brightness  of  God  ? 
Were  my  spirit  but  turned  from  the  outward  and  dim, 
It  could  gaze,  even  now,  on  the  presence  of  Him  ! 

Not  in  clouds  and  in  terrors,  but  gentle  as  when, 
In  love  and  in  meekness,  He  moved  among  men ; 
And  the  voice  which  breathed  peace  to  the  waves  of  the 

sea 
In  the  hush  of  my  spirit  would  whisper  to  me  I 


- 


252 


M ISC  ELL  A  NEO  US. 


And  what  if  my  feet  may  not  tread  •where  He  stood, 
Nor  my  ears  hear  the  dashing  of  Galilee's  flood, 
Nor  my  eyes  see  the  cross  which  He  bowed  him  to  bear, 
Nor  ir.y  knees  press  Gethsemane's  garden  of  prayer. 

Yet,  Loved  of  the  Father,  thy  Spirit  is  near 
To  the  meek,  and  the  lowly,  and  penitent  here  ; 
And  the  voice  of  thy  love  is  the  same  even  now 
As  at  Bethany's  tomb  or  on  Olivet's  brow. 

O,  the  outward  hath  gone  !  —  but  in  glory  and  power, 
The  SPIRIT  surviveth  the  things  of  an  hour  ; 
Unchanged,  undecaying,  its  Pentecost  flame 
Ou  the  heart's  secret  altar  is  burning  the  same  1 


EZEKIEL. 

CHAPTER   XXXIII.    30-33. 

THEY  hear  thee  not,  O  God  !  nor  see  ; 
Beneath  thy  rod  they  mock  at  thee  ; 
The  princes  of  our  ancient  line 
Lie  drunken  with  Assyrian  wine  ; 
The  priests  around  thy  altar  speak 
The  false  words  which  their  hearers  seek  ; 
And  hymns  which  Chaldea's  wanton  maids 
Have  sung  in  Dura's  idol-shades 
Are  with  the  Levites'  chant  ascending, 
With  Zion's  holiest  anthems  blending  ! 

On  Israel's  bleeding  bosom  set, 
The  heathen  heel  is  crushing  yet ; 


EZEKIEL. 

The  towers  upon  our  holy  hill 
Echo  Chaldean  footsteps  still. 
Our  wasted  shrines,  —  who  weeps  for  them  ? 
Who  mourneth  for  Jerusalem  ? 
Who  turneth  from  his  gains  away  ? 
Whose  knee  with  mine  is  bowed  to  pray  ? 
Who,  leaving  feast  and  purpling  cup, 
Takes  Zion's  lamentation  up  ? 

A  sad  and  thoughtful  youth,  I  went 
With  Israel's  early  banishment ; 
And,  where  the  sullen  Chebar  crept, 
The  ritual  of  my  fathers  kept. 
The  water  for  the  trench  I  drew, 
The  firstling  of  the  flock  I  slew, 
And,  standing  at  the  altar's  side, 
I  shared  the  Levite's  lingering  pride, 
That  still,  amidst  her  mocking  foes, 
The  smoke  of  Zion's  offering  rose. 

In  sudden  whirlwind,  cloud  and  flame, 
The  Spirit  of  the  Highest  came  ! 
Before  mine  eyes  a  vision  passed, 
A  glory  terrible  and  vast ; 
With  dreadful  eyes  of  living  things, 
And  sounding  sweep  of  angel  wings, 
With  circling  light  and  sapphire  throne, 
And  flame-like  form  of  One  thereon, 
And  voice  of  that  dread  Likeness  sent 
Down  from  the  crystal  firmament ! 

The  burden  of  a  prophet's  power 
Fell  on  me  in  that  fearful  hour  ; 
From  off  unutterable  woes 


253 


254  MISCELLANEOUS. 

The  curtain  of  the  future  rose  ; 

I  saw  far  down  the  coming  time 

The  fiery  chastisement  of  crime  ; 

With  noise  of  mingling  hosts,  and  jar 

Of  falling  towers  and  shouts  of  war, 

I  saw  the  nations  rise  and  fall, 

Like  fire-gleams  on  my  tent's  white  walL 

In  dream  and  trance,  I  saw  the  slain 
Of  Egypt  heaped  like  harvest  grain  ; 
I  saw  the  walls  of  sea-born  Tyre 
Swept  over  by  the  spoilers  fire  ; 
And  heard  the  low,  expiring  moan 
Of  Edom  on  his  rocky  throne  ; 
And,  woe  is  me  !  the  wild  lament 
From  Zion's  desolation  sent ; 
And  felt  within  my  heart  each  blow 
Which  laid  her  holy  places  low. 

In  bonds  and  sorrow,  day  by  day, 

Before  the  pictured  tile  I  lay  ; 

And  there,  as  in  a  mirror,  saw 

The  coming  of  Assyria's  war,  — 

Her  swarthy  lines  of  spearmen  pass 

Like  locusts  through  Bethhoron's  grass  ; 

I  saw  them  draw  their  stormy  hem 

Of  battle  round  Jerusalem  ; 

And,  listening,  heard  the  Hebrew  wail 

Blend  with  the  victor-trump  of  Baal ! 

Who  trembled  at  my  warning  word  ? 
Who  owned  the  prophet  of  the  Lord  ? 
How  mocked  the  rude,  —  how  scoffed  the  vile, 
How  stung  the  Levites'  scornful  smile, 


EZEKIEL. 

As  o'er  my  spirit,  dark  and  slow, 
The  shadow  crept  of  Israel's  woe, 
As  if  the  angel's  mournful  roll 
Had  left  its  record  on  my  soul, 
And  traced  in  lines  of  darkness  there 
The  picture  of  its  great  despair ! 

Yet  ever  at  the  hour  I  feel 
My  lips  in  prophecy  unseal. 
Prince,  priest,  and  Levite  gather  near, 
And  Salem's  daughters  kaste  to  hear, 
On  Chebar's  waste  and  alien  shore, 
The  harp  of  Judah"  swept  once  more. 
They  listen,  as  in  Babel's  throng 
The  Chaldeans  to  the  dancer's  song, 
Or  wild  sabbeka's  nightly  play, 
As  careless  and  as  vain  as  they. 


255 


And  thus,  O  Prophet-bard  of  old, 
Hast  thou  thy  tale  of  sorrow  told  ! 
The  same  which  earth's  unwelcome  seers 
Have  felt  in  all  succeeding  years. 
Sport  of  the  changeful  multitude, 
Nor  calmly  heard  nor  understood, 
Their  song  has  seemed  a  trick  of  art, 
Their  warnings  but  the  actor's  part. 
With  bonds,  and  scorn,  and  evil  will, 
The  world  requites  its  prophets  still. 

So  was  it  when  the  Holy  One 
The  garments  of  the  flesh  put  on  ! 
Men  followed  where  the  Highest  led 
For  common  gifts  of  daily  bread, 


256  MISCELLANEOUS. 

And  gross  of  ear,  of  vision  dim, 
Owned  not  the  godlike  power  of  Him. 
Vain  as  a  dreamer's  words  to  them 
His  wail  above  Jerusalem, 
And  meaningless  the  watch  He  kept 
Through  which  his  weak  disciples  slept. 

Yet  shrink  not  thou,  whoe'er  thou  art, 
For  God's  great  purpose  set  apart, 
Before  whose  far-discerning  eyes 
The  Future  as  the  Present  lies  ! 
Beyond  a  narrow-bounded  age 
Stretches  thy  prophet-heritage, 
Through  Heaven's  dim  spaces  angel-trod, 
Through  arches  round  the  throne  of  God  ! 
Thy  audience,  worlds  !  —  all  Time  to  be 
The  witness  of  the  Truth  in  thee  1 


THE  WIFE  OF  MANOAH  TO  HER  HUSBAND. 

A  GAINST  the  sunset's  glowing  wall 
**•    The  city  towers  rise  black  and  tall, 
Where  Zorah,  on  its  rocky  height, 
Stands  like  an  armed  man  in  the  light 

Down  Eshtaol's  vales  of  ripened  grain 
Falls  like  a  cloud  the  night  amain, 
And  up  the  hillsides  climbing  slow 
The  barley  reapers  homeward  go. 

Look,  dearest  !  how  our  fair  child's  head 
The  sunset  light  hath  hallowed, 
Where  at  this  olive's  foot  he  lies, 
Uplooking  to  the  tranquil  skies. 


WIFE  OF  MANOAH  TO  HER  HUSBAND. 

O,  while  beneath  the  fervent  heat 

Thy  sickle  swept  the  bearded  wheat, 

I  Ve  watched,  with  mingled  joy  and  dread, 

Our  child  upon  his  grassy  bed. 

Joy,  which  the  mother  feels  alone 
Whose  morning  hope  like  mine  had  flown, 
When  to  her  bosom,  over  blessed, 
A  dearer  life  than  hers  is  pressed. 

Dread,  for  the  future  dark  and  still, 
Which  shapes  our  dear  one  to  its  will ; 
Forever  in  his  large  calm  eyes, 
I  read  a  tale  of  sacrifice.  — 

The  same  foreboding  awe  I  felt 

When  at  the  altar's  side  we  knelt, 

And  he,  who  as  a  pilgrim  came, 

Rose,  winged  and  glorious,  through  the  flame. 

I  slept  not,  though  the  wild  bees  made 
A  dreamlike  murmuring  in  the  shade, 
And  on  me  the  warm-fingered  hours 
Pressed  with  the  drowsy  smell  of  flowers. 

Before  me,  in  a  vision,  rose 
The  hosts  of  Israel's  scornful  foes,  — 
Rank  over  rank,  helm,  shield,  and  spear, 
Glittered  in  noon's  hot  atmosphere. 

I  heard  their  boast,  and  bitter  word, 
Their  mockery  of  the  Hebrew's  Lord, 
I  saw  their  hands  his  ark  assail, 
Their  feet  profane  his  holy  veil. 


257 


258  MISCELLANEO  US. 

No  angel  down  the  blue  space  spoke, 
No  thunder  from  the  still  sky  broke  ; 
But  in  their  midst,  in  power  and  awe, 
Like  God's  waked  wrath,  OUR  CHILD  I  saw ! 

A  child  no  more  !  —  harsh-browed  and  strong, 
He  towered  a  giant  in  the  throng, 
And  down  his  shoulders,  broad  and  bare, 
Swept  the  black  terror  of  his  hair. 

He  raised  his  arm  ;  he  smote  amain  ; 
As  round  the  reaper  falls  the  grain, 
So  the  dark  host  around  him  fell, 
So  sank  the  foes  of  Israel ! 

Again  I  looked.     In  sunlight  shone 
The  towers  and  domes  of  Askelon. 
Priest,  warrior,  slave,  a  mighty  crowd, 
Within  her  idol  temple  bowed. 

Yet  one  knelt  not ;  stark,  gaunt,  and  blind, 
His  arms  the  massive  pillars  twined,  — 
An  eyeless  captive,  strong  with  hate, 
He  stood  there  like  an  evil  Fate. 

The  red  shrines"  smoked,  —  the  trumpets  pealed : 
He  stooped,  —  the  giant  columns  reeled,  — 
Reeled  tower  and  fane,  sank  arch  and  wall, 
And  the  thick  dust-cloud  closed  o'er  all ! 

Above  the  shriek,  the  crash,  the  groan 
Of  the  fallen  pride  of  Askelon, 
I  heard,  sheer  down  the  echoing  sky, 
A  voice  as  of  an  angel  cry,  — • 


WIFE  OF  MA  NO  A II  TO  HER  HUSBAND. 

The  voice  of  him,  who  at  our  side 
Sat  through  the  golden  eventide,  — 
Of  him  who,  on  thy  altar's  blaze, 
Rose  fire-winged,  with  his  song  of  praise  J 

"Rejoice  o'er  Israel's  broken  chain, 
Gray  mother  of  the  mighty  slain  ! 
Rejoice  !  "  it  cried,  "  he  vanquisheth  I 
The  strong  in  life  is  strong  in  death ! 

"  To  him  shall  Zorah's  daughters  raise 
Through  coming  years  their  hymns  of  praise, 
And  gray  old  men  at  evening  tell 
Of  all  he  wrought  for  Israel. 

"  And  they  who  sing  and  they  who  hear 
Alike  shall  hold  thy  memory  dear, 
And  pour  their  blessings  on  thy  head, 

0  mother  of  the  mighty  dead  ! " 

It  ceased  ;  and  though  a  sound  I  heard 
As  if  great  wings  the  still  air  stirred, 

1  only  saw  the  barley  sheaves 
And  hills  half  hid  by  olive  leaves. 

I  bowed  my  face,  in  awe  and  fear, 

On  the  dear  child  who  slumbered  near. 

"  With  me,  as  with  my  only  son, 

O  God,"  I  said,  "  THY  WILL  BE  DONE  1" 


259 


260  MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE    CITIES    OF    THE    PLAIN. 

ET  ye  up  from  the  wrath  of  God's  terrible  day  : 

Ungirded,  unsandalled,  arise  and  away  ! 
'T  is  the  vintage  of  blood,  't  is  the  fulness  of  time, 
And  vengeance  shall  gather  the  harvest  of  crime  ! " 

The  warning  was  spoken  ;  the  righteous  had  gone, 
And  the  proud  ones  of  Sodom  were  feasting  alone  ; 
All  gay  was  the  banquet ;  the  revel  was  long, 
With  the  pouring  of  wine  and  the  breathing  of  song. 

'T  was  an  evening  of  beauty  ;  the  air  was  perfume, 
The  earth  was  all  greenness,  the  trees  were  all  bloom  ; 
And  softly  the  delicate  viol  was  heard, 
Like  the  murmur  of  love  or  the  notes  of  a  bird. 

And  beautiful  maidens  moved  down  in  the  dance, 
With  the  magic  of  motion  and  sunshine  of  glance  ; 
And  white  arms  wreathed  lightly,  and  tresses  fell  free 
As  the  plumage  of  birds  in  some  tropical  tree. 

Where  the  shrines  of  foul  idols  were  lighted  on  high, 
And  wantonness  tempted  the  lust  of  the  eye  ; 
Midst    rites    of  obsceneness,    strange,   loathsome,    ab 
horred, 
The  blasphemer  scoffed  at  the  name  of  the  Lord. 

Hark  !  the  growl  of  the  thunder,  —  the  quaking  of  earth  ! 
Woe,  woe  to  the  worship,  and  woe  to  the  mirth  ! 
The  black  sky  has  opened,  —  there  's  flame  in  the  air,  - 
The  red  arm  of  vengeance  is  lifted  and  bare ! 


TPIE   CRUCIFIXION-.  261 

Then  the  shriek  of  the  dying  rose  wild  where  the  song 
And  the  low  tone  of  love  had  been  whispered  along! 
For  the  fierce  flames  went  lightly  o'er  pal  ice  and  bower, 
Like  the  red  tongues  of  demons,  to  blast  and  devour ! 

Down,  —  down  on  the  fallen  the  red  ruin  rained, 
And  the  reveller  sank  with  his  wine-cup  undrained  ; 
The  foot  of  the  dancer,  the  music's  loved  thrill, 
And  the  shout  and  the  laughter  grew  suddenly  still. 

The  last  throb  of  anguish  was  fearfully  given  ; 
The  last  eye  glared  forth  in  its  madness  on  Heaven ! 
The  last  groan  of  horror  rose  wildly  and  vain, 
And  death  brooded  over  the  pride  of  the  Plain ! 


THE    CRUCIFIXION. 

SUNLIGHT  upon  Judaea's  hills  ! 
And  on  the  waves  of  Galilee,  — 
On  Jordan's  stream,  and  on  the  rills 

That  feed  the  dead  and  sleeping  sea  ! 
Most  freshly  from  the  green  wood  springs 
The  light  breeze  on  its  scented  wings  ; 
And  gayly  quiver  in  the  sun 
The  cedar  tops  of  Lebanon  ! 

A  few  more  hours,  —  a  change  hath  come  I 
The  sky  is  dark  without  a  cloud  ! 

The  shouts  of  wrath  and  joy  are  dumb, 
And  proud  knees  unto  earth  are  bowed. 

A  change  is  on  the  hill  of  Death, 

The  helme'd  watchers  pant  for  breath, 


262  MISCELLANEOUS. 

And  turn  with  wild  and  maniac  eyes 
From  the  dark  scene  of  sacrifice  ! 

That  Sacrifice  !  —  the  death  of  Him,  — • 

The  High  and  ever  Holy  One ! 
Well  may  the  conscious  Heaven  grow  dim. 

And  blacken  the  beholding  Sun. 
The  wonted  light  hath  fled  away, 
Night  settles  on  the  middle  day, 
And  earthquake  from  his  caverned  bed 
Is  waking  with  a  thrill  of  dread! 

The  dead  are  waking  underneath  ! 

Their  prison-door  is  rent  away  ! 
And,  ghastly  with  the  seal  of  death, 

They  wander  in  the  eye  of  day ! 
The  temple  of  the  Cherubim, 
The  House  of  God  is  cold  and  dim  ; 
A  curse  is  on  its  trembling  walls, 
Its  mighty  veil  asunder  falls  ! 

Well  may  the  cavern-depths  of  Earth 
Be  shaken,  and  her  mountains  nod  ; 
Well  may  the  sheeted  dead  come  forth 

To  gaze  upon  a  suffering  God ! 
Well  may  the  temple-shrine  grow  dim, 
And  shadows  veil  the  Cherubim, 
When  He,  the  chosen  One  of  Heaven, 
A  sacrifice  for  guilt  is  given  ! 

And  shall  the  sinful  heart,  alone, 
Behold  unmoved  the  atoning  hour, 

When  Nature  trembles  on  her  throne, 
And  Death  resigns  his  iron  power  ? 


THE  STAR   OF  BETHLEHEM.  263 

O,  shall  the  heart,  —  whose  sinfulness 
Gave  keenness  to  his  sore  distress, 
And  added  to  his  tears  of  blood, — 
Refuse  its  trembling  gratitude  ! 


THE    STAR    OF    BETHLEHEM. 

WHERE  Time  the  measure  of  his  hours 
By  changeful  bud  and  blossom  keeps, 
And,  like  a  young  bride  crowned  with  flowers, 
Fair  Shiraz  in  her  garden  sleeps  ; 

Where,  to  her  poet's  turban  stone, 

The  Spring  her  gift  of  flowers  imparts, 

Less  sweet  than  those  his  thoughts  have  sown 
In  the  warm  soil  of  Persian  hearts  : 

There  sat  the  stranger,  where  the  shade 
Of  scattered  date-trees  thinly  lay, 

While  in  the  hot  clear  heaven  delayed 
The  long  and  still  and  weary  day. 

Strange  trees  and  fruits  above  him  hung, 
Strange  odors  filled  the  sultry  air, 

Strange  birds  upon  the  branches  swung, 
Strange  insect  voices  murmured  there. 

And  strange  bright  blossoms  shone  around, 
Turned  sunward  from  the  shadowy  bowers, 

As  if  the  Gheber's  soul  had  found 
A  fitting  home  in  Iran's  flowers. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 

Whate'er  he  saw,  whate'er  he  heard, 
Awakened  feelings  new  and  sad,  — 

No  Christian  garb,  nor  Christian  .word, 

Nor  church  with  Sabbath-bell  chimes  glad, 

But  Moslem  graves,  with  turban  stones, 
And  mosque-spires  gleaming  white,  in  v>ew, 

And  graybeard  Mollahs  in  low  tones 
Chanting  their  Koran  service  through. 

The  flowers  which  smiled  on  either  hand, 
Like  tempting  fiends,  were  such  as  they 

Which  once,  o'er  all  that  Eastern  land, 
As  gifts  on  demon  altars  lay. 

As  if  the  burning  eye  of  Baal 

The  servant  of  his  Conqueror  knew, 

From  skies  which  knew  no  cloudy  veil, 
The  Sun's  hot  glances  smote  him  through. 

"Ah  me  !  "  the  lonely  stranger  said, 
"  The  hope  which  led  my  footsteps  on, 

And  light  from  heaven  around  them  shed? 
O'er  weary  wave  and  waste,  is  gone  ! 

"  Where  are  the  harvest  fields  all  white, 
For  Truth  to  thrust  her  sickle  in  ? 

Where  flock  the  souls,  like  doves  in  flight, 
From  the  dark  hiding-place  of  sin  ? 

"  A  silent  horror  broods  o'er  all,  — 
The  burden  of  a  hateful  spell,  — 

The  very  flowers  around  recall 
The  hoary  magi's  rites  of  hell  I 


THE  STAR   OF  BETHLEHEM.  26$ 

"  And  what  am  I,  o'er  such  a  land 

The  banner  of  the  Cross  to  bear  ? 
Dear  Lord,  uphold  me  with  thy  hand, 

Thy  strength  with  human  weakness  share ! 5: 

He  ceased  ;  for  at  his  very  feet 

In  mild  rebuke  a  floweret  smiled, — 

How  thrilled  his  sinking  heart  to  greet 
The  Star-flower  of  the  Virgin's  Child  1 

Sown  by  some  wandering  Frank,  it  drew 

Its  life  from  alien  air  and  earth, 
And  told  to  Paynim  sun  and  dew 

The  story  of  the  Saviour's  birth. 

From  scorching  beams,  in  kindly  mood, 
The  Persian  plants  its  beauty  screened, 

And  on  its  pagan  sisterhood, 

In  love,  the  Christian  floweret  leaned. 

With  tears  of  joy  the  wanderer  felt 

The  darkness  of  his  long  despair 
Before  that  hallowed  symbol  melt, 

Which  God's  dear  love  had  nurtured  there 

From  Nature's  face  that  simple  flower 
The  lines  of  sin  and  sadness  swept ; 

And  Magian  pile  and  Paynim  bower 
In  peace  like  that  of  Eden  slept. 

Each  Moslem  tomb,  and  cypress  old, 
Looked  holy  through  the  sunset  air ; 

And,  angel-like,  the  Muezzin  told 

From  tower  and  mosque  the  hour  of  prayen 


266  MISCELLANEOUS. 

With  cheerful  steps,  the  morrow's  dawn 
From  Shiraz  saw  the  stranger  part; 

The  Star-flower  of  the  Virgin-Born 
Still  blooming  in  his  hopeful  heart  1 


HYMNS. 

FROM   THE   FRENCH   OF   LAMARTINE. 

ONE  hymn  more,  O  my  lyre  ! 
Praise  to  the  God  above, 
Of  joy  and  life  and  love, 
Sweeping  its  strings  of  fire ! 

O,  who  the  speed  of  bird  and  wind 

And  sunbeam's  glance  will  lend  to  me, 
That,  soaring  upward,  I  may  find 

My  resting-place  and  home  in  Thee  ?  — 
Thou,  whom  my  soul,  midst  doubt  and  gloonr. 

Adoreth  with  a  fervent  flame,  — 
Mysterious  spirit !  unto  whom 

Pertain  no  sign  nor  name  ! 

Swiftly  my  lyre's  soft  murmurs  go, 

Up  from  the  cold  and  joyless  earth, 
Back  to  the  God  who  bade  them  flow, 

Whose  moving  spirit  sent  them  forth. 
But  as  for  me,  O  God  !  for  me, 

The  lowly  creature  of  thy  will, 
Lingering  and  sad,  I  sigh  to  thee, 

An  earth-bound  pilgrim  still ! 


HYMNS.  26] 

Was  not  my  spirit  born  to  shine 

Where  yonder  stars  and  suns  are  glowing  ? 
To  breathe  with  them  the  light  divine 

From  God's  own  holy  altar  flowing  ? 
To  be,  indeed,  whate'er  the  soul 

In  dreams  hath  thirsted  for  so  long,  — 
A  portion  of  Heaven's  glorious  whole 

Of  loveliness  and  song  ? 

O,  watchers  of  the  stars  at  night, 

Who  breathe  their  fire,  as  we  the  air,  — • 
Suns,  thunders,  stars,  and  rays  of  light, 

O,  say,  is  He,  the  Eternal,  there  ? 
Bend  there  around  his  awful  throne 

The  seraph's  glance,  the  angel's  knee  ? 
Or  are  thy  inmost  depths  his  own, 

O  wild  and  mighty  sea  ? 

Thoughts  of  my  soul,  how  swift  ye  go  ! 

Swift  as  the  eagle's  glance  of  fire, 
Or  arrows  from  the  archer's  bow, 

To  the  far  aim  of  your  desire  ! 
Thought  after  thought,  ye  thronging  rise, 

Like  spring-doves  from  the  startled  wood. 
Bearing  like  them  your  sacrifice 

Of  music  unto  God  ! 

And  shall  these  thoughts  of  joy  and  love 

Come  back  again  no  more  to  me  ?  — • 
Returning  like  the  Patriarch's  dove 

Wing-weary  from  the  eternal  sea, 
To  bear  within  my  longing  arms 

The  promise-bough  of  kindlier  skies, 
Plucked  from  the  green,  immortal  palms 

Which  shadow  Paradise  ? 


2  68  MISCELLANEOUS. 

All-moving  spirit !  —  freely  forth 

At  thy  command  the  strong  wind, goes  ; 
Its  errand  to  the  passive  earth 

Nor  art  can  stay  nor  strength  oppose, 
Until  it  folds  its  weary  wing 

Once  more  within  the  hand  divine  ; 
So,  weary  from  its  wandering, 

My  spirit  turns  to  thine  ! 

Child  of  the  sea,  the  mountain  stream, 

From  its  dark  caverns,  hurries  on. 
Ceaseless,  by  night  and  morning's  beam, 

By  evening's  star  and  noontide's  sun, 
Until  at  last  it  sinks  to  rest, 

O'erwearied,  in  the  waiting  sea, 
And  moans  upon  its  mother's  breast,  — 

So  turns  my  soul  to  Thee  ! 

O  Thou  who  bid'st  the  torrent  flow, 

Who  lendest  wings  unto  the  wind,  — 
Mover  of  all  things  !  where  art  thou  ? 

O,  whither  shall  I  go  to  find 
The  secret  of  thy  resting-place  ? 

Is  there  no  holy  wing  for  me, 
That,  soaring,  I  may  search  the  space 

Of  highest  heaven  for  Thee  ? 

O.  would  I  were  as  free  to  rise 

As  leaves  on  autumn's  whirlwind  borne, — 
The  arrowy  light  of  sunset  skies, 

Or  sound,  or  ray,  or  star  of  morn, 
Which  melts  in  heaven  at  twilight's  close, 

Or  aught  which  soars  unchecked  and  free 
Through  Earth  and  Heaven  ;  that  I  might  lose 

Myself  in  finding  Thee  ! 


HYMNS.  269 

WHEN  the  BREATH  DIVINE  is  flowing, 
Zephyr-like  o'er  all  things  going, 
And,  as  the  touch  of  viewless  lingers, 
Softly  on  my  soul  it  lingers, 
Open  to  a  breath  the  lightest, 
Conscious  of  a  touch  the  slightest,  — 
As  some  calm,  still  lake,  whereon 
Sinks  the  snowy-bosomed  swan, 
And  the  glistening  water-rings 
Circle  round  her  moving  wings  : 
When  my  upward  gaze  is  turning 
Where  the  stars  of  heaven  are  burning 
Through  the  deep  and  dark  abyss,  — 
Flowers  of  midnight's  wilderness, 
Blowing  with  the  evening's  breath 
Sweetly  in  their  Maker's  path  : 

When  the  breaking  day  is  flushing 
All  the  east,  and  light  is  gushing 
Upward  through  th2  horizon's  haze, 
Sheaf-like,  with  its  thousand  rays, 
Spreading,  until  all  above 
Overflows  with  joy  and  love, 
And  below,  on  earth's  green  bosom, 
All  is  changed  to  light  and  blossom  < 

When  my  waking  fancies  over 
Forms  of  brightness  flit  and  hover, 
Holy  as  the  seraphs  are, 
Who  by  Zion's  fountains  wear 
On  their  foreheads,  white  and  broad, 
"  HOLINESS  UNTO  THE  LORD  !  " 
When,  inspired  with  rapture  high, 


2  7  o  MISCELLANEOUS. 

It  would  seem  a  single  sigh 
Could  a  world  of  love  create,  — 
That  my  life  could  know  no  date, 
And  my  eager  thoughts  could  fill 
Heaven  and  Earth,  o'erfiowing  still !  — 

Then,  O  Father  !  thou  alone, 

From  the  shadow  of  thy  throne, 

To  the  sighing  of  my  breast 

And  its  rapture  answerest 

All  my  thoughts,  which,  upward  winging. 

Bathe  where  thy  own  light  is  springing,— 

All  my  yearnings  to  be  free 

Are  as  echoes  answering  thee ! 

Seldom  upon  lips  of  mine, 
Father  !  rests  that  name  of  thine,  — 
Deep  within  my  inmost  breast, 
In  the  secret  place  of  mind, 
Like  an  awful  presence  shrined, 
Doth  the  dread  idea  rest ! 
Hushed  and  holy  dwells  it  there,— 
Prompter  of  the  silent  prayer, 
Lifting  up  my  spirit's  eye 
And  its  faint,  but  earnest  cry, 
From  its  dark  and  cold  abode, 
Unto  thee,  my  Guide  and  God  1 


THE  FEMALE  MARTYR.  2J1 


THE    FEMALE    MARTYR. 

[MARY  G ,  agcfl  eighteen,  a  "  SISTER  OF  CHARITY,"  died  in  one  of 

our  Atlantic  cities,  during  the  prevalence  of  the  Indian  cholera,  while  in 
voluntary  attendance  upoii  the  sick.] 

"  "O  RING  out  your  dead  .'  "    The  midnight  street 
U   Heard  and  gave  back  the  hoarse,  low  call ; 

Harsh  fell  the  tread  of  hasty  feet,  — 

Glanced  through  the  dark  the  coarse  white  sheet,  — 
Her  coffin  and  her  pall. 

"  What  —  only  one  !  "    the  brutal  hackman  said, 

As,  with  an  oath,  he  spurned  away  the  dead. 

How  sunk  the  inmost  hearts  of  all, 

As  rolled  that  dead-cart  slowly  by, 
With  creaking  wheel  and  harsh  hoof-fall ! 
The  dying  turned  him  to  the  wall, 

To  hear  it  and  to  die  !  — 
Onward  it  rolled  ;  while  oft  its  driver  stayed, 
And  hoarsely  clamored,  "  Ho  !  — bring  out  your  dead." 

It  paused  beside  the  burial-place  ; 

"  Toss  in  your  load  !  "  —  and  it  was  done.  — 
With  quick  hand  and  averted  face, 
Hastily  to  the  grave's  embrace 

They  cast  them,  one  by  one,— 
Stranger  and  friend,  — the  evil  and  the  just, 
Together  trodden  in  the  churchyard  dust ! 

And  thou,  young  martyr  !  —  thou  wast  there,  — - 
No  white-robed  sisters  round  thee  trod, — 


272  MISCELLANEO  US. 

Nor  holy  hymn,  nor  funeral  prayer 
Rose  through  the  damp  and  noisome  air, 

Giving  thee  to  thy  God  ; 

Nor  flower,  nor  cross,  nor  hallowed  taper  gave 
Grace  to  the  dead,  and  beauty  to  the  grave  ! 

• 
Yet,  gentle  sufferer !  there  shall  be, 

In  every  heart  of  kindly  feeling, 
A  rite  as  holy  paid  to  thee 
As  if  beneath  the  convent-tree 

Thy  sisterhood  were  kneeling, 
At  vesper  hours,  like  sorrowing  angels,  keeping 
Their  tearful  watch  around  thy  place  of  sleeping. 

For  thou  wast  one  in  whom  the  light 

Of  Heaven's  own  love  was  kindled  well. 
Enduring  with  a  martyr's  might, 
Through  weary  day  and  wakeful  night 

Far  more  than  words  may  tell : 
Gentle,  and  meek,  and  lowly,  and  unknown,  — 
Thy  mercies  measured  by  thy  God  alone  ! 

Where  manly  hearts  were  failing,  —  where 
The  throngful  street  grew  foul  with  death, 

O  high-souled  martyr  !  — thou  wast  there, 

inhaling,  from  the  loathsome  air, 
Poison  with  every  breath. 

Yet  shrinking  not  from  offices  of  dread 

For  the  wrung  dying,  and  the  unconscious  dead. 

And,  where  the  sickly  taper  shed. 

Its  light  through  vapors,  damp,  confined, 

Hushed  as  a  seraph's  fell  thy  tread,  — 

A  new  Electra  by  the  bed 
Of  suffering  human-kind  1 


THE  FEMALE  MARTYR.  273 

Pointing  the  spirit,  in  its  dark  dismay, 
To  that  pure  hope  which  fadeth  not  away. 

Innocent  teacher  of  the  high 

And  holy  mysteries  of  Heaven ! 
How  turned  to  thee  each  glazing  eye, 
In  mute  and  awful  sympathy, 

As  thy  low  prayers  were  given  ; 
And  the  o'er-hovering  Spoiler  wore,  the  while, 
An  angel's  features,  —  a  deliverer's  smile  ! 

A  blessed  task  !  —  and  worthy  one 

Who,  turning  from  the  world,  as  thou, 
Before  life's  pathway  had  begun 
To  leave  its  spring-time  flower  and  sun, 

Had  sealed  her  early  vow  ; 
Giving  to  God  her  beauty  and  her  youth, 
Her  pure  affections  and  her  guileless  truth. 

Earth  may  not  claim  thee.     Nothing  here 

Could  be  for  thee  a  meet  reward  ; 
Thine  is  a  treasure  far  more  dear, — 
Eye  hath  not  seen  it,  nor  the  ear 

Of  living  mortal  heard,  — 

The  joys  prepared,  —  the  promised  bliss  above,  — 
The  holy  presence  of  Eternal  Love  ! 

Sleep  on  in  peace.     The  earth  has  not 

A  nobler  name  than  thine  shall  be. 
The  deeds  by  martial  manhood  wrought, 
The  lofty  energies  of  thought, 

The  fire  of  poesy,  — 

These  have  but  frail  and  fading  honors  ;  —  thine 
Shall  Time  unto  Eternity  consign. 

13  • 


MISCELLANEOUS. 

Yea,  and  when  thrones  shall  crumble  down, 

And  human  pride  and  grandeur  fall,  — 
The  herald's  line  of  long  renown,  — 
The  mitre  and  the  kingly  crown,  — 

Perishing  glories  all ! 
The  pure  devotion  of  thy  generous  heart 
Shall  live  in  Heaven,  of  which  it  was  a  part. 


THE    FROST    SPIRIT. 

HE  comes, — he  comes,  —  the  Frost  Spirit  comes \ 
You  may  trace  his  footsteps  now 
On  the  naked  woods   and   the  blasted  fields  and  the 

brown  hill's  withered  brow. 
He  has  smitten  the  leaves  of  the  gray  old  trees  where 

their  pleasant  green  came  forth, 

And  the  winds,  which  follow  wherever  he  goes,  have 
shaken  them  down  to  earth. 

He  comes,  —  he  comes,  —  the   Frost  Spirit  comes  !  — 

from  the  frozen  Labrador,  — 
From  the  icy  bridge  of  the  Northern  seas,  which  the 

white  bear  wanders  o'er,  — 
Where  the  fisherman's  sail   is    stiff  with  ice,  and  the 

luckless  forms  below 
In  the  sunless  cold  of  the  lingering  night  into  marble 

statues  grow  ! 

He  comes,  — he  comes,  —  the  Frost  Spirit  comes  !  —  on 
the  rushing  Northern  blast, 

And  the  dark  Norwegian  pines  have  bowed  as  his  fear 
ful  breath  went  past. 


THE    VAUDOIS   TEACHER.  375 

With  an  unscorched  wing  he  has  hurried  on,  where  the 

fires  of  Hecla  glow 
On  the  darkly  beautiful  sky  above  and  the  ancient  ice 

below. 

He  comes,  —  he  comes,  —  the  Frost  Spirit  comes!  — 

and  the  quiet  lake  shall  feel 
The  torpid  touch  of  his  glazing  breath,  and  ring  to  the 

skater's  heel ; 
And  the  streams  which  danced  on  the  broken  rocks,  or 

sang  to  the  leaning  grass, 
Shall  bow  again  to  their  winter  chain,  and  in  mournful 

silence  pass. 

He  comes,  —  he  comes,  —  the  Frost  Spirit  comes  !  —  let 

us  meet  him  as  we  may, 
And  turn  with  the  light  of  the  parlor-fire  his  evil  power 

away  ; 
And  gather  closer  the  circle  round,  when  that  fire-light 

dances  high, 
And  laugh  at  the  shriek   of  the  baffled  Fiend  as  his 

sounding  wing  goes  by  ! 


THE    VAUDOIS    TEACHER.38 

"(~\  LADY  fair,  these  silks  of  mine  are  beautiful  and 

^-^  rare, — 
The  richest  web  of  the   Indian  loom,  which  beauty's 

queen  might  wear ; 
And  my  pearls   are  pure  as  thy  own  fair  neck,  with 

whose  radiant  light  they  vie  ; 
I  have  brought  them  with  me  a  weary  way,  —  will  my 

gentle  lady  buy  ?  " 


276  MISCELLANEO  US. 

And  the  lady  smiled  on  the  worn  old  man  thr*  agh  the 

dark  and  clustering  curls 
Which  veiled  her  brow  as  she  bent  to  view  his  silks  and 

glittering  pearls  ; 
And  she  placed  their  price  in  the  old  man's  hand,  and 

lightly  turned  away. 
But  she  paused  at  the  wanderer's  earnest  call,  —  "  My 

gentle  lady,  stay  ! " 

"  O  lady  fair,  I  have  yet  a  gem  which  a  purer  lustre 

flings, 
Than  the  diamond  flash  of  the  jewelled  crown  on  the 

lofty  brow  of  kings,  — 
A  wonderful  pearl  of  exceeding  price,  whose  virtue  shall 

not  decay, 
Whose  light  shall  be  as  a  spell  to  thee  and  a  blessing  on 

thy  way  ! " 

The  lady  glanced  at  the  mirroring  steel  where  her  form 
of  grace  was  seen, 

Where  her  eye  shone  clear,  and  her  dark  locks  waved 
their  clasping  pearls  between ; 

"  Bring  forth  thy  pearl  of  exceeding  worth,  thou  travel 
ler  gray  and  old,  — 

And  name  the  price  of  thy  precious  gem,  and  my  page 
shall  count  thy  gold." 

The  cloud  went  off  from  the  pilgrim's  brow,  as  a  small 

and  meagre  book, 
Unchased  with  gold  or  gem  of  cost,  from  his  folding 

robe  he  took  ! 
"  Here,  lady  fair,  is  the  pearl  of  price,  may  it  prove  as 

such  to  thee ! 
—  keep  thy  gold  —  I  ask  it  not,  for  the  word  of  God 

is  free!" 


THE   CALL    OF  THE   CHRISTIAN.         277 

The  hoary  traveller  went  his  way,  but  the  gift  he  left 
behind 

Hath  had  its  pure  and  perfect  work  on  that  high-born 
maiden's  mind, 

And  she  hath  turned  from  the  pride  of  sin  to  the  lowli 
ness  of  truth, 

And  given  her  human  heart  to  God  in  its  beautiful  hour 
of  youth ! 

And  she  hath  left  the  gray  old  halls,  where  an  evil  faith 
had  power, 

The  courtly  knights  of  her  father's  train,  and  the  maid 
ens  of  her  bower ; 

And  she  hath  gone  to  the  Vaudois  vales  by  lordly  feet 
untrod, 

Where  the  poor  and  needy  of  earth  are  rich  in  the 
perfect  love  of  God  ! 


THE    CALL   OF    THE    CHRISTIAN. 

NOT  always  as  the  whirlwind's  rush 
On  Horeb's  mount  of  fear, 
Not  always  as  the  burning  bush 

To  Midian's  shepherd  seer, 
Nor  as  the  awful  voice  which  came 

To  Israel's  prophet  bards, 
Nor  as  the  tongues  of  cloven  flame, 
Nor  gift  of  fearful  words,  — 

Not  always  thus,  with  outward  sign 
Of  fire  or  voice  from  Heaven, 

The  message  of  a  truth  divine, 
The  call  of  God  is  given  ! 


278  M1SCELLANEO  US. 

Awaking  in  the  human  heart 
Love  for  the  true  and  right,  — 

Zeal  for  the  Christian's  better  part, 
Strength  for  the  Christian's  fight. 

Not  unto  manhood's  heart  alone 

The  holy  influence  steals  : 
Warm  with  a  rapture  not  its  own, 

The  heart  of  woman  feels  ! 
As  she  who  by  Samaria's  wall 

The  Saviour's  errand  sought,  — 
As  those  who  with  the  fervent  Paul 

And  meek  Aquila  wrought : 

Or,  those  meek  ones  whose  martyrdom 

Rome's  gathered  grandeur  saw  : 
Or  those  who  in  their  Alpine  home 

Braved  the  Crusader's  war, 
When  the  green  Vaudois,  trembling,  heard 

Through  all  its  vales  of  death, 
The  martyr's  song  of  triumph  poured 

From  woman's  failing  breath. 

And  gently,  by  a  thousand  things 

Which  o'er  our  spirits  pass, 
Like  breezes  o'er  the  harp's  fine  strings, 

Or  vapors  o'er  a  glass, 
Leaving  their  token  strange  and  new 

Of  music  or  of  shade, 
The  summons  to  the  right  and  true 

And  merciful  is  made. 

O,  then,  if  gleams  of  truth  and  light 
Flash  o'er  thy  waiting  mind, 


MY  SOUL  AND  1.  279 

Unfolding  to  thy  mental  sight 

The  wants  of  human-kind  ; 
If,  brooding  over  human  grief, 

The  earnest  wish  is  known 
To  soothe  and  gladden  with  relief 

An  anguish  not  thine  own  ; 

Though  heralded  with  naught  of  fear, 

Or  outward  sign  or  show  ; 
Though  only  to  the  inward  ear 

It  whispers  soft  and  low  ; 
Though  dropping,  as  the  manna  fell, 

Unseen,  yet  from  above, 
Noiseless  as  dew-fall,  heed  it  well,  — 

Thy  Father's  call  of  love  1 


MY    SOUL    AND    I. 

STAND  still,  my  soul,  in  the  silent  dark 
I  would  question  thee, 
Alone  in  the  shadow  drear  and  stark 
With  God  and  me  ! 

What,  my  soul,  was  thy  errand  here  ? 

Was  it  mirth  or  ease, 
Or  heaping  up  dust  from  year  to  year  ? 

"  Nay,  none  of  these  ! " 

Speak,  soul,  aright  in  His  holy  sight 

Whose  eye  looks  still 
And  steadily  on  thee  through  the  night : 

"To  do  his  will!" 


28o  MISCELLANEOUS. 

What  hast  thou  done,  O  soul  of  mine, 

That  thou  tremblest  so  ?  — 
Hast  thou  wrought  his  task,  and  kept  the  line 

He  bade  thee  go  ? 

What,  silent  all !  —  art  sad  of  cheer  ? 

Art  fearful  now  ? 
When  God  seemed  far  and  men  were  near, 

How  brave  wert  thou  ! 

Aha  !  thou  tremblest !  —  well  I  see 

Thou  'rt  craven  grown. 
Is  it  so  hard  with  God  and  me 

To  stand  alone  ? 

Summon  thy  sunshine  bravery  back, 

O  wretched  sprite  ! 
Let  me  hear  thy  voice  through  this  deep  and  black 

Abysmal  night. 

What  hast  thou  wrought  for  Right  and  Truth, 

For  God  and  Man, 
From  the  golden  hours  of  bright-eyed  youth 

To  life's  mid  span  ? 

Ah,  soul  of  mine,  thy  tones  I  hear, 

But  weak  and  low, 
Like  far  sad  murmurs  on  my  ear 

They  come  and  go. 

"  I  have  wrestled  stoutly  with  the  Wrong, 

And  borne  the  Right 
From  beneath  the  footfall  of  the  throng 

To  life  and  light. 


MY  SOUL  AND  I.  28i 

"  Wherever  Freedom  shivered  a  chain, 

God  speed,  quoth  I  ; 
To  Error  amidst  her  shouting  train 

I  give  the  lie." 

Ah,  soul  of  mine !  ah,  soul  of  mine  ! 

Thy  deeds  are  well : 
Were  they  wrought  for  Truth's  sake  or  for  thine  ? 

My  soul,  pray  tell. 

"  Of  all  the  work  my  hand  hath  wrought 

Beneath  the  sky, 
Save  a  place  in  kindly  human  thought, 

No  gain  have  I." 

Go  to,  go  to  !  —  for  thy  very  self 

Thy  deeds  were  done  : 
Thou  for  fame,  the  miser  for  pelf, 

Your  end  is  one  ! 

And  where  art  thou  going,  soul  of  mine  ? 

Canst  see  the  end  ? 
And  whither  this  troubled  life  of  thine 

Evermore  doth  tend  ? 

What  daunts  thee  now?  —  what  shakes  thee  so? 

My  sad  soul  say. 
"  I  see  a  cloud  like  a  curtain  low 

Hang  o'er  my  way. 

"Whither  I  go  I  cannot  tell : 

That  cloud  hangs  black, 
High  as  the  heaven  and  deep  as  hell 

Across  my  track. 


282  MISCELLANEOUS. 

"  I  see  its  shadow  coldly  enwrap 

The  souls  before. 
Sadly  they  enter  it,  step  by  step, 

To  return  no  more. 

I 

"  They  shrink,  they  shudder,  dear  God !  they  kneel 

To  thee  in  prayer. 
They  shut  their  eyes  on  the  cloud,  but  feel 

That  it  still  is  there. 

"In  vain  they  turn  from  the  dread  Before 

To  the  Known  and  Gone  ; 
For  while  gazing  behind  them  evermore 

Their  feet  glide  on. 

"  Yet,  at  times,  I  see  upon  sweet  pale  faces 

A  light  begin 
To  tremble,  as  if  from  holy  places 

And  shrines  within. 

"And  at  times  methinks  their  cold  lips  move 

With  hymn  and  prayer, 
As  if  somewhat  of  awe,  but  more  of  love 

And  hope  were  there. 

"  I  call  on  the  souls  who  have  left  the  light 

To  reveal  their  lot ; 
I  bend  mine  ear  to  that  wall  of  night, 

And  they  answer  not. 

"  But  I  hear  around  me  sighs  of  pain 

And  the  cry  of  fear, 
And  a  sound  like  the  slow  sad  dropping  of  rain, 

Each  drop  a  tear ! 


MY  SOUL  AND  I.  283 

"  Ah,  the  cloud  is  dark,  and  day  by  day 

I  am  moving  thither  : 
I  must  pass  beneath  it  on  my  way  — 

God  pity  me  !  —  WHITHER  ?  " 

Ah,  soul  of  mine  !  so  brave  and  wise 


In  the  life-storm  loud, 


Fronting  so  calmly  all  human  eyes 
In  the  sunlit  crowd  ! 

Now  standing  apart  with  God  and  me 

Thou  art  weakness  all, 
Gazing  vainly  after  the  things  to  be 

Through  Death's  dread  wall. 

But  never  for  this,  never  for  this 

Was  thy  being  lent  ; 
For  the  craven's  fear  is  but  selfishness, 

Like  his  merriment. 

Folly  and  Fear  are  sisters  twain  : 

One  closing  her  eyes, 
The  other  peopling  the  dark  inane 

With  spectral  lies. 

Know  well,  my  soul,  God's  hand  controls 

Whate'er  thou  fearest  ; 
Round  him  in  calmest  music  rolls 

Whate'er  thou  hearest. 

What  to  thee  is  shadow  to  him  is  day, 

And  the  end  he  knoweth, 
And  not  on  a  blind  and  aimless  way 

The  spirit  goeth. 


284  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Man  sees  no  future,  —  a  phantom  show 

Is  alone  before  him  : 
Past  Time  is  dead,  and  the  grasses  grow, 

And  flowers  bloom  o'er  him. 

Nothing  before,  nothing  behind; 

The  steps  of  Faith 
Fall  on  the  seeming  void,  and  find 

The  rock  beneath. 

The  Present,  the  Present  is  all  thou  hast 

For  thy  sure  possessing  ; 
Like  the  patriarch's  angel  hold  it  fast 

Till  it  gives  its  blessing. 

Why  fear  the  night  ?  why  shrink  from  Death, 

That  phantom  wan  ? 
There  is  nothing  in  heaven  or  earth  beneath 

Save  God  and  man. 

Peopling  the  shadows  we  turn  from  Him 

And  from  one  another  ; 
All  is  spectral  and  vague  and  dim 

Save  God  and  our  brother  ! 

Like  warp  and  woof  all  destinies 

Are  woven  fast, 
Linked  in  sympathy  like  the  keys 

Of  an  organ  vast. 

Pluck  one  thread,  and  the  web  ye  mar  ; 

Break  but  one 
Of  a  thousand  keys,  and  the  paining  jar 

Through  all  will  run. 


MY  SOUL   AND  I.  285 

O  restless  spirit !  wherefore  strain 

Beyond  thy  sphere  ? 
Heaven  and  hell,  with  their  joy  and  pain, 

Are  now  and  here. 

Back  to  thyself  is  measured  well 

All  thou  hast  given  ; 
Thy  neighbor's  wrong  is  thy  present  hell, 

His  bliss,  thy  heaven. 

And  in  life,  in  death,  in  dark  and  light, 

All  are  in  God's  care  ; 
Sound  the  black  abyss,  pierce  the  deep  of  night, 

And  he  is  there  ! 

All  which  is  real  now  remaineth, 

And  fadeth  never : 
The  hand  which  upholds  it  now  sustaineth 

The  soul  forever. 

Leaning  on  him,  make  with  reverent  meekness 

His  own  thy  will, 
And  with  strength  from  Him  shall  thy  utter  weakness 

Life's  task  fulfil ; 

And  that  cloud  itself,  which  now  before  thee 

Lies  dark  in  view, 
Shall  with  beams  of  light  from  the  inner  glory 

Be  stricken  through. 

And  like  meadow  mist  through  autumn's  dawn 

Uprolling  thin, 
Its  thickest  folds  when  about  thee  drawn 

Let  sunlight  in. 


f 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Then  of  what  is  to  be,  and  of  what  is  done, 

Why  queriest  thou  ?  — 
The  past  and  the  time  to  be  are  one, 

And  both  are  NOW  ! 


TO    A    FRIEND, 

ON  HER  RETURN  FROM  EUROPE. 

HOW  smiled  the  land  of  France 
Under  thy  blue  eye's  glance, 
Light-hearted  rover  ! 
Old  walls  of  chateaux  gray, 
Towers  of  an  early  day, 
Which  the  Three  Colors  play 
Flauntingly  over. 

Now  midst  the  brilliant  train 
Thronging  the  banks  of  Seine  : 

Now  midst  the  splendor 
Of  the  wild  Alpine  range, 
Waking  with  change  on  change 
Thoughts  in  thy  young  heart  strange, 

Lovely,  and  tender. 

Vales,  soft  Elysian, 
Like  those  in  the  vision 

Of  Mirza,  when,  dreaming, 
He  saw  the  long  hollow  dell, 
Touched  by  the  prophet's  spell, 
Into  an  ocean  swell 

With  its  isles  teeming. 


TO  A   FRIEND.  287 

Cliffs  wrapped  in  snows  of  years, 
Splintering  with  icy  spears 

Autumn's  blue  heaven  : 
Loose  rock  and  frozen  slide, 
Hung  on  the  mountain-side, 
Waiting  their  hour  to  glide 

Downward,  storm-driven  ! 

Rhine  stream,  by  castle  old, 
Baron's  and  robber's  hold, 

Peacefully  flowing ; 
Sweeping  through  vineyards  green, 
Or  where  the  cliffs  are  seen 
O'er  the  broad  wave  between 

Grim  shadows  throwing. 

Or,  where  St.  Peter's  dome 
Swells  o'er  eternal  Rome, 

Vast,  dim,  and  solemn,  — 
Hymns  ever  chanting  low,  — 
Censers  swung  to  and  fro,  — 
Sable  stoles  sweeping  slow 

Cornice  and  column  ! 

O,  as  from  each  and  all 
Will  there  not  voices  call 

Evermore  back  again  ? 
In  the  mind's  gallery 
Wilt  thou  not  always  see 
Dim  phantoms  beckon  thee 

O'er  that  old  track  again  ? 

New  forms  thy  presence  haunt,  — 
New  voices  softly  chant,  — 
New  faces  greet  thee !  — 


288  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Pilgrims  from  many  a  shrine 
Hallowed  by  poet's  line, 
At  memory's  magic  sign, 
Rising  to  meet  thee. 

And  when  such  visions  come 
Unto  thy  olden  home, 

Will  they  not  waken 
Deep  thoughts  of  Him  whose  hand 
Led  thee  o'er  sea  and  land 
Back  to  the  household  band 

Whence  thou  wast  taken  ? 

While,  at  the  sunset  time, 
Swells  the  cathedral's  chime, 

Yet,  in  thy  dreaming, 
While  to  thy  spirit's  eye 
Yet  the  vast  mountains  lie 
Piled  in  the  Switzer's  sky, 

Icy  and  gleaming : 

Prompter  of  silent  prayer, 
Be  the  wild  picture  there 

In  the  mind's  chamber, 
And,  through  each  coming  day 
Him  who,  as  staff  and  stay, 
Watched  o'er  thy  wandering  way, 

Freshly  remember. 

So,  when  the  call  shall  be 
Soon  or  late  unto  thee, 

As  to  all  given, 
Still  may  that  picture  live, 
All  its  fair  forms  survive, 
And  to  thy  spirit  give 

Gladness  in  heaven ! 


THE  ANGEL   OF  PATIENCE.  289 


THE    ANGEL    OF    PATIENCE. 

A   FREE   PARAPHRASE   OF  THE  GERMAN. 

TO  weary  hearts,  to  mourning  homes, 
God's  meekest  Angel  gently  comes  : 
No  power  has  he  to  banish  pain, 
Or  give  us  back  our  lost  again  ; 
And  yet  in  tenderest  love,  our  dear 
And  Heavenly  Father  sends  him  here. 

There  's  quiet  in  that  Angel's  glance, 

There  's  rest  in  his  still  countenance  ! 

He  mocks  no  grief  with  idle  cheer, 

Nor  wounds  with  words  the  mourner's  ear  ; 

But  ills  and  woes  he  may  not  cure 

He  kindly  trains  us  to  endure. 

Angel  of  Patience  !  sent  to  calm 
Our  feverish  brows  with  cooling  palm  ; 
To  lay  the  storms  of  hope  and  fear, 
And  reconcile  life's  smile  and  tear  ; 
The  throbs  of  wounded  pride  to  still, 
And  make  our  own  our  Father's  will ! 

O  thou  who  mournest  on  thy  way, 
With  longings  for  the  close  of  day  ; 
He  walks  with  thee,  that  Angel  kind, 
And  gently  whispers,  "  Be  resigned  : 
Bear  up,  bear  on,  the  end  shall  tell 
The  dear  Lord  ordereth  all  things  well  !  " 


20.0  MISCELLANEOUS. 


FOLLEN. 

ON   READING  HIS   ESSAY  ON   THE   "FUTURE  STATE." 

FRIEND  of  my  soul !  —  as  with  moist  eye 
I  look  up  from  this  page  of  thine, 
Is  it  a  dream  that  thou  art  nigh, 
Thy  mild  face  gazing  into  mine  ? 

That  presence  seems  before  me  now, 
A  placid  heaven  of  sweet  moonrise, 

When,  dew-like,  on  the  earth  below 
Descends  the  quiet  of  the  skies. 

The  calm  brow  through  the  parted  hair, 
The  gentle  lips  which  knew  no  guile, 

Softening  the  blue  eye's  thoughtful  care 
With  the  bland  beauty  of  their  smile. 

Ah  me  !  —  at  times  that  last  dread  scene 
Of  Frost  and  Fire  and  moaning  Sea, 

Will  cast  its  shade  of  doubt  between 
The  failing  eyes  of  Faith  and  thee. 

Yet,  lingering  o'er  thy  charmed  page, 
Where  through  the  twilight  air  of  earth, 

Alike  enthusiast  and  sage, 

Prophet  and  bard,  thou  gazest  forth  ; 

Lifting  the  Future's  solemn  veil  ; 

The  reaching  of  a  mortal  hand 
To  put  aside  the  cold  and  pale 

Cloud-curtains  of  the  Unseen  Land  ; 


POLLEN.  291 

In  thoughts  which  answer  to  my  own, 
In  words  which  reach  my  inward  ear, 

Like  whispers  from  the  void  Unknown, 
I  feel  thy  living  presence  here. 

The  waves  which  lull  thy  body's  rest, 
The  dust  thy  pilgrim  footsteps  trod, 

Unwasted,  through  each  change,  attest 
The  fixed  economy  of  God. 

Shall  these  poor  elements  outlive 

The  mind  whose  kingly  will  they  wrought  ? 
Their  gross  unconsciousness  survive 

Thy  godlike  energy  of  thought  ? 

THOU  LIVEST,  FOLLEN  !  —  not  in  vain 

Hath  thy  fine  spirit  meekly  borne 
The  burthen  of  Life's  cross  of  pain, 

And  the  thorned  crown  of  suffering  worn. 

O,  while  Life's  solemn  mystery  gipoms 
Around  us  like  a  dungeon's  wall,  — 

Silent  earth's  pale  and  crowded  tombs, 
Silent  the  heaven  which  bends  o'er  all !  — • 

While  day  by  day  our  loved  ones  glide 
In  spectral  silence,  hushed  and  lone, 

To  the  cold  shadows  which  divide 
The  living  from  the  dread  Unknown  ; 

While  even  on  the  closing  eye, 

And  on  the  lip  which  moves  in  vain, 

The  seals  of  that  stern  mystery 
Their  undiscovered  trust  retain  ;  — 


292 


MISCELLANEOUS. 

And  only  midst  the  gloom  of  death, 

Its  mournful  doubts  and  haunting  fears, 

Two  pale,  sweet  angels,  Hope  and  Faith, 
Smile  dimly  on  us  through  their  tears  ; 

T  is  something  to  a  heart  like  mine 

To  think  of  thee  as  living  yet ; 
To  feel  that  such  a  light  as  thine 

Could  not  in  utter  darkness  set. 

Less  dreary  seems  the  untried  way 
Since  thou  hast  left  thy  footprints  there, 

And  beams  of  mournful  beauty  play 
Round  the  sad  Angel's  sable  hair. 

Oh  !  —  at  this  hour  when  half  the  sky 
Is  glorious  with  its  evening  light, 

And  fair  broad  fields  of  summer  lie 

Hung  o'er  with  greenness  in  my  sight ; 

While  through  these  elm-boughs  wet  with  rain 
The  sunset's  golden  walls  are  seen, 

With  clover-bloom  and  yellow  grain 

And  wood-draped  hill  and  stream  between  ; 

I  long  to  know  if  scenes  like  this 
Are  hidden  from  an  angel's  eyes  ; 

If  earth's  familiar  loveliness 

Haunts  not  thy  heaven's  serener  skies. 

For  sweetly  here  upon  thee  grew 
The  lesson  which  that  beauty  gave, 

The  ideal  of  the  Pure  and  True 
In  earth  and  sky  and  gliding  wave. 


POLLEN.  293 

And  it  may  be  that  all  which  lends 

The  soul  an  upward  impulse  here, 
With  a  diviner  beauty  blends, 

And  greets  us  in  a  holier  sphere. 

Through  groves  where  blighting  never  fell 
The  humbler  flowers  of  earth  may  twine  ; 

And  simple  draughts  from  childhood's  well 
Blend  with  the  angel-tasted  wine. 

But  be  the  prying  vision  veiled, 
And  let  the  seeking  lips  be  dumb,  — 

Where  even  seraph  eyes  have  failed 
Shall  mortal  blindness  seek  to  come  ? 

We  only  know  that  thou  hast  gone, 

And  that  the  same  returnless  tide 
Which  bore  thee  from  us  still  glides  on, 

And  we  who  mourn  thee  with  it  glide. 

On  all  thou  lookest  we  shall  look, 
And  to  our  gaze  erelong  shall  turn 

That  page  of  God's  mysterious  book 
We  so  much  wish  yet  dread  to  learn. 

With  Him,  before  whose  awful  power 
Thy  spirit  bent  its  trembling  knee  ;  — 

Who,  in  the  silent  greeting  flower, 
And  forest  leaf,  looked  out  on  thee,  — 

We  leave  thee,  with  a  trust  serene, 

Which  Time,  nor  Change,  nor  Death  can  move, 
While  with  thy  childlike  faiUi  we  lean 

On  Him  whose  dearest  name  is  Love  ! 


294 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


TO   THE   REFORMERS   OF   ENGLAND 

GOD  bless  ye,  brothers  !  —  in  the  fight 
Ye  're  waging  now  ye  cannot  fail, 
For  better  is  your  sense  of  right 
Than  king-craft's  triple  mail. 

Than  tyrant's  law  or  bigot's  ban, 
More  mighty  is  your  simplest  word ; 

The  free  heart  of  an  honest  man 
Than  crosier  or  the  sword. 

Go,  —  let  your  bloated  Church  rehearse 
The  lesson  it  has  learned  so  well ; 

It  moves  not  with  its  prayer  or  curse 
The  gates  of  heaven  or  hell. 

Let  the  State  scaffold  rise  again,  — 
Did  Freedom  die  when  Russell  died  ? 

Forget  ye  how  the  blood  of  Vane 
From  earth's  green  bosom  cried  ? 

Hie  great  hearts  of  your  olden  time 
Are  beating  with  you,  full  and  strong 

Vll  holy  memories  and  sublime 
And  glorious  round  ye  throng. 

The  bluff,  bold  men  of  Runnymede 
Are  with  ye  still  in  times  like  these  ; 

The  shades  of  England's  mighty  dead, 
Your  cloud  of  witnesses ! 


TO    THE  REFORMERS  OF  ENGLAND.     295 

The  truths  ye  urge  are  borne  abroad 

By  every  wind  and  every  tide ; 
The  voice  of  Nature  and  of  God 

Speaks  out  upon  your  side. 

The  weapons  which  your  hands  have  found 
Are  those  which  Heaven  itself  has  wrought, 

Light,  Truth,  and  Love  ;  —  your  battle-ground 
The  free,  broad  field  of  Thought. 

No  partial,  selfish  purpose  breaks 

The  simple  beauty  of  your  plan, 
Nor  lie  from  throne  or  altar  shakes 

Your  steady  faith  in  man. 

The  languid  pulse  of  England  starts 

And  bounds  beneath  your  words  of  power, 

The  beating  of  her  million  hearts 
Is  with  you  at  this  hour! 

O  ye  who,  with  undoubting  eyes, 

Through  present  cloud  and  gathering  storm, 
Behold  the  span  of  Freedom's  skies, 

And  sunshine  soft  and  warm,  — 

Press  bravely  onward  !  —  not  in  vain 
Your  generous  trust  in  human-kind  ; 

The  good  which  bloodshed  could  not  gain 
Your  peaceful  zeal  shall  find. 

Press  on  !  —  the  triumph  shall  be  won 
Of  common  rights  and  equal  laws, 

The  glorious  dream  of  Harrington, 
And  Sidney's  good  old  cause. 


290 


MISCELLANEOUS. 

Blessing  the  cotter  and  the  crown, 
Sweetening  worn  Labor's  bitter  cup  ; 

And,  plucking  not  the  highest  down, 
Lifting  the  lowest  up. 

Press  on  !  —  and  we  who  may  not  share 
The  toil  or  glory  of  your  fight 

May  ask,  at  least,  in  earnest  prayer, 
God's  blessing  on  the  right ! 


THE    QUAKER   OF   THE   OLDEN    TIME. 

T^HE  Quaker  of  the  olden  time!  — 
-•-       How  calm  and  firm  and  true, 
Unspotted  by  its  wrong  and  crime, 

He  walked  the  dark  earth  through. 
The  lust  of  power,  the  love  of  gain, 

The  thousand  lures  of  sin 
Around  him,  had  no  power  to  stain 

The  purity  within. 

With  that  deep  insight  which  detects 

All  great  things  in  the  small, 
And  knows  how  each  man's  life  affects 

The  spiritual  life  of  all, 
He  walked  by  faith  and  not  by  sight, 

By  love  and  not  by  law  ; 
The  presence  of  the  wrong  or  right 

He  rather  felt  than  saw. 

He  felt  that  wrong  with  wrong  partakes, 
That  nothing  stands  alone, 


THE  REFORMER.  297 

That  whoso  gives  the  motive  makes 

His  brother's  sin  his  own. 
And,  pausing  not  for  doubtful  choice 

Of  evils  great  or  small, 
He  listened  to  that  inward  voice 

Which  called  away  from  all. 

O  Spirit  of  that  early  day, 

So  pure  and  strong  and  true, 
Be  with  us  in  the  narrow  way 

Our  faithful  fathers  knew. 
Give  strength  the  evil  to  forsake, 

The  cross  of  Truth  to  bear, 
And  love  and  reverent  fear  to  make 

Our  daily  lives  a  prayer ! 


THE    REFORMER. 

ALL  grim  and  soiled  and  brown  with  tan, 
I  saw  a  Strong  One,  in  his  wrath, 
Smiting  the  godless  shrines  of  man 
Along  his  path. 

The  Church,  beneath  her  trembling  dome 

Essayed  in  vain  her  ghostly  charm  : 
Wealth  shook  within  his  gilded  home 
With  strange  alarm. 

Fraud  from  his  secret  chambers  fled 

Before  the  sunlight  bursting  in  : 
Sloth  drew  her  pillow  o'er  her  head 
To  drown  the  din. 
13* 


298  MISCELLANEO  US. 

"  Spare,"  Art  implored,  "  yon  holy  pile  ; 

That  grand,  old,  time-worn  turret  spare  "  ; 
Meek  Reverence,  kneeling  in  the  aisle, 
Cried  out,  "Forbear!" 

Gray-bearded  Use,  who,  deaf  and  blind, 
Groped  for  his  old  accustomed  stone, 
Leaned  on  his  staff,  and  wept  to  rind 
His  seat  o'erthrown. 

Young  Romance  raised  his  dreamy  eyes, 

O'erhung  with  paly  locks  of  gold,  — 
"Why  smite,"  he  asked  in  sad  surprise, 
"The  fair,  the  old?" 

Yet  louder  rang  the  Strong  One's  stroke, 

Yet  nearer  flashed  his  axe's  gleam  ; 
Shuddering  and  sick  of  heart  I  woke, 
As  from  a  dream. 

I  looked  :  aside  the  dust-cloud  rolled,  — 
The  Waster  seemed  the  Builder  too  ; 
Up  springing  from  the  ruined  Old 

I  saw  the  New. 

'T  was  but  the  ruin  of  the  bad,  — 

The  wasting  of  the  wrong  and  ill ; 
Whate'er  of  good  the  old  time  had 
Was  living  still. 

Calm  grew  the  brows  of  him  I  feared  ; 

The  frown  which  awed  me  passed  away. 
And  left  behind  a  smile  which  cheered 
Like  breaking  day. 


299 


THE  REFORMER. 

The  grain  grew  green  on  battle-plains, 

O'er  swarded  war-mounds  grazed  the  cow ; 
The  slave  stood  forging  from  his  chains 
The  spade  and  plough. 

Where  frowned  the  fort,  pavilions  gay 

And  cottage  windows,  flower-entwined, 
Looked  out  upon  the  peaceful  bay 
And  hills  behind. 


Through  vine-wreathed  cups  with  wine  once  red, 

The  lights  on  brimming  crystal  fell, 
Drawn,  sparkling,  from  the  rivulet  head 
And  mossy  well. 

Through  prison  walls,  like  Heaven-sent  hope, 
Fresh  breezes  blew,  and  sunbeams  strayed, 
And  with  the  idle  gallows-rope 
The  young  child  played. 

Where  the  doomed  victim  in  his  cell 
Had  counted  o'er  the  weary  hours, 
Glad  school-girls,  answering  to  the  bell, 
Came  crowned  with  flowers. 

Grown  wiser  for  the  lesson  given, 

I  fear  no  longer,  for  I  know 
That,  where  the  share  is  deepest  driven, 
The  best  fruits  grow. 

The  outworn  rite,  the  old  abuse, 

The  pious  fraud  transparent  grown, 
The  good  held  captive  in  the  use 
Of  wrong  alone,  — 


3  oo  MISCELLANEOUS. 

These  wait  their  doom,  from  that  great  law 
Which  makes  the  past  time  serve  to-day  ; 
And  fresher  life  the  world  shall  draw 
From  their  decay. 

O,  backward-looking  son  of  time  ! 
The  new  is  old,  the  old  is  new, 
The  cycle  of  a  change  sublime 
Still  sweeping  through. 

So  wisely  taught  the  Indian  seer  ; 

Destroying  Seva,  forming  Brahm, 
Who  wake  by  turns  Earth's  love  and  fear 
Are  one  and  same 

Idly  as  thou,  in  that  old  day 

Thou  mournest,  did  thy  sire  repine  ; 
So,  in  his  time,  thy  child  grown  gray 
Shall  sigh  for  thine. 

But  life  shall  on  and  upward  go  ; 

Th'  eternal  step  of  Progress  beats 
To  that  great  anthem,  calm  and  slow, 
Which  £od  repeats. 

Take  heart !  —  the  Waster  builds  again,  — 

A  charmed  life  old  Goodness  hath  ; 
The  tares  may  perish,  —  but  the  grain 
Is  not  for  death. 

God  works  in  all  things  ;  all  obey 

His  first  propulsion  from  the  night : 
Wake  thou  and  watch  !  —  the  world  is  gray 
With  morning  light  1 


PRISONER  FOR  DEBT.  301 


THE    PRISONER    FOR    DEBT. 

LOOK  on  him  !  —  through  his  dungeon  grate 
Feebly  and  cold  the  morning  light 
Comes  stealing  round  him,  dim  and  late, 

As  if  it  loathed  the  sight. 
Reclining  on  his  strawy  bed, 
His  hand  upholds  his  drooping  head,  — 
His  bloodless  cheek  is  seamed  and  hard, 
Unshorn  his  gray,  neglected  beard  ; 
And  o'er  his  bony  fingers  flow 
His  long,  dishevelled  locks  of  snow. 

No  grateful  fire  before  him  glows, 
And  yet  the  winter's  breath  is  chill ; 

And  o'er  his  half-clad  person  goes 
The  frequent  ague  thrill  ! 

Silent,  save  ever  and  anon, 

A  sound,  half  murmur  and  half  groan, 

Forces  apart  the  painful  grip 

Of  the  old  sufferer's  bearded  lip ; 

O  sad  and  crushing  is  the  fate 

Of  old  age  chained  and  desolate  ! 

Just  God  !  why  lies  that  old  man  there  ? 

A  murderer  shares  his  prison  bed, 
Whose  eyeballs,  through  his  horrid  hair, 

Gleam  on  him,  fierce  and  red  ; 
And  the  rude  oath  and  heartless  jeer 
Fall  ever  on  his  loathing  ear, 
And,  or  in  wakefulness  or  sleep, 
Nerve,  flesh,  and  pulses  thrill  and  creep 


302  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Whene'er  that  ruffian's  tossing  limb, 
Crimson  with  murder,  touches  him ! 

What  has  the  gray-haired  prisoner  done  ? 

Has  murder  stained  his  hands  with  gore  ? 
Not  so ;  his  crime  's  a  fouler  one  ; 

GOD  MADE  THE  OLD  MAN  POOR  ! 

For  this  he  shares  a  felon's  cell,  — 
The  fittest  earthly  type  of  hell  ! 
For  this,  the  boon  for  which  he  poured 
His  young  blood  on  the  invader's  sword, 
And  counted  light  the  fearful  cost,  — 
His  blood-gained  liberty  is  lost ! 

And  so,  for  such  a  place  of  rest, 

Old  prisoner,  dropped  thy  blood  as  rain 
On  Concord's  field,  and  Bunker's  crest, 

And  Saratoga's  plain  ? 
Look  forth,  thou  man  of  many  scars, 
Through  thy  dim  dungeon's  iron  bars  ; 
It  must  be  joy,  in  sooth,  to  see, 
Yon  monument  upreared  to  thee,  — 
Piled  granite  and  a  prison  cell,  — 
The  land  repays  thy  service  well ! 

Go,  ring  the  bells  and  fire  the  guns, 
And  fling  the  starry  banner  out  ; 
Shout  kk  Freedom  !  "  till  your  lisping  ones 

Give  back  their  cradle-shout ; 
Let  boastful  eloquence  declaim 
Of  honor,  liberty,  and  fame  ; 
Still  let  the  poet's  strain  be  heard, 
With  glory  for  each  second  word, 
And  everything  with  breath  agree 
To  praise  "  our  glorious  liberty  !  " 


LINES.  303 

But  when  the  patron  cannon  jars 
That  prison's  cold  and  gloomy  wall, 

And  through  its  grates  the  stripes  and  stars 
Rise  on  the  wind  and  fall,  — 

Think  ye  that  prisoner's  aged  ear 

Rejoices  in  the  general  cheer  ? 

Think  ye  his  dim  and  failing  eye 

Is  kindled  at  your  pageantry  ? 

Sorrowing  of  soul,  and  chained  of  limb, 

What  is  your  carnival  to  him  ? 

Down  with  the  LAW  that  binds  him  thus ! 

Unworthy  freemen,  let  it  find 
No  refuge  from  the  withering  curse 

Of  God  and  human  kind  ! 
Open  the  prison's  living  tomb, 
And  usher  from  its  brooding  gloom 
The  victims  of  your  savage  code 
To  the  free  sun  and  air  of  God  ; 
No  longer  dare  as  crime  to  brand 
The  chastening  of  the  Almighty's  hand. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  ON  READING  PAMPHLETS  PUBLISHED  BY 
CLERGYMEN  AGAINST  THE  ABOLITION  OF  THE  GAL 
LOWS. 

I. 

HP  HE  suns  of  eighteen  centuries  have  shone 

-L       Since  the  Redeemer  walked  with  man,  and  made 
The  fisher's  boat,  the  cavern's  floor  of  stone, 
And  mountain  moss,  a  pillow  for  his  head  ; 


304  MISCELLANEOUS. 

And  He,  who  wandered  with  the  peasant  Jew, 
And  broke  with  publicans  the  bread  of  shame, 
And  drank,  with  blessings  in  his  Father's  name, 
The  water  which  Samaria's  outcast  drew, 
Hath  now  his  temples  upon  every  shore, 

Altar  and  shrine  and  priest,  —  and  incense  dim 
Evermore  rising,  with  low  prayer  and  hymn, 
From  lips  which  press  the  temple's  marble  floor, 
Or  kiss  the  gilded  sign  of  the  dread  Cross  He  bore. 

II. 

Yet  as  of  old,  when,  meekly  "  doing  good," 
He  fed  a  blind  and  selfish  multitude, 
And  even  the  poor  companions  of  his  lot 
With  their  dim  earthly  vision  knew  him  not, 

How  ill  are  his  high  teachings  understood  ! 
Where  He  hath  spoken  Liberty,  the  priest 

At  his  own  altar  binds  the  chain  anew  ; 
Where  He  hath  bidden  to  Life's  equal  feast, 

The  starving  many  wait  upon  the  few  ; 
Where  He  hath  spoken  Peace,  his  name  hath  been 
The  loudest  war-cry  of  contending  men  ; 
Priests,  pale  with  vigils,  in  his  name  have  blessed 
The  unsheathed  sword,  and  laid  the  spear  in  rest, 
Wet  the  war-banner  with  their  sacred  wine, 
And  crossed  its  blazon  with  the  holy  sign  ; 
Yea,  in  his  name  who  bade  the  erring  live, 
And  daily  taught  his  lesson,  —  to  forgive  !  — 

Twisted  the  cord  and  edged  the  murderous  steel ; 
And,  with  his  words  of  mercy  on  their  lips, 
Hung  gloating  o'er  the  pincer's  burning  grips, 

And  the  grim  horror  of  the  straining  wheel ; 
Fed  the  slow  flame  which  gnawed  the  victim's  limb. 
Who  saw  before  his  searing  eyeballs  swim 


LINES. 


305 


The  image  of  their  Christ  in  cruel  zeal, 
Through  the  black  torment-smoke  held  mockingly  to 
him! 

in. 
The  blood  which  mingled  with  the  desert  sand, 

And  beaded  with  its  red  and  ghastly  dew 
The  vines  and  olives  of  the  Holy  Land,  — 

The  shrieking  curses  of  the  hunted  Jew,  — 
The  white-sown  bones  of  heretics,  where'er 
They  sank  beneath  the  Crusade's  holy  spear,  — 
Goa's  dark  dungeons,  —  Malta's  sea-washed  cell, 

Where  with  the  hymns  the  ghostly  fathers  sung 

Mingled  the  groans  by  subtle  torture  wrung, 
Heaven's  anthem  blending  with  the  shriek  of  hell ! 
The  midnight  of  Bartholomew,  —  the  stake 

Of  Smithfield,  and  that  thrice-accurse'd  flame 
Which  Calvin  kindled  by  Geneva's  lake,  — 
New  England's  scaffold,  and  the  priestly  sneer 
Which  mocked  its  victims  in  that  hour  of  fear, 

When  guilt  itself  a  human  tear  might  claim,  — 
Bear  witness,  O  thou  wronged  and  merciful  One ! 
That  Earth's  most  hateful  crimes  have  in  thy  name 
been  done ' 

IV. 

Thank  God  !  that  I  have  lived  to  see  the  time 
When  the  great  truth  begins  at  last  to  find 
An  utterance  from  the  deep  heart  of  mankind, 

Earnest  and  clear,  that  ALL  REVENGE  is  CRIME  ! 

That  man  is  holier  than  a  creed,  —  that  all 
Restraint  upon  him  must  consult  his  good, 

Hope's  sunshine  linger  on  his  prison  wall, 
And  Love  look  in  upon  his  solitude. 

The  beautiful  lesson  which  our  Saviour  taught 


306  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Through  long,  dark  centuries  its  way  hath  wrought 
Into  the  common  mind  and  popular  thought  ; 
And  words,  to  which  by  Galilee's  lake  shore 
The  humble  fishers  listened  with  hushed  oar, 
Have  found  an  echo  in  the  general  heart, 
And  of  the  public  faith  become  a  living  part 

V. 

Who  shall  arrest  this  tendency? —  Bring  back 
The  cells  of  Venice  and  the  bigot's  rack  ? 
Harden  the  softening  human  heart  again 
To  cold  indifference  to  a  brother's  pain  ? 
Ye  most  unhappy  men  !  —  who,  turned  away 
From  the  mild  sunshine  of  the  Gospel  day, 

Grope  in  the  shadows  of  Man's  twilight  time, 
What  mean  ye,  that  with  ghoul-like  zest  ye  brood, 
O'er  those  foul  altars  streaming  with  warm  blood, 

Permitted  in  another  age  and  clime  ? 
Why  cite  that  law  with  which  the  bigot  Jew 
Rebuked  the  Pagan's  mercy,  when  he  knew 
No  evil  in  the  Just  One  ?  —  Wherefore  turn 
To  the  dark  cruel  past  ?  —  Can  ye  not  learn 
From  the  pure  Teacher's  life,  how  mildly  free 
Is  the  great  Gospel  of  Humanity  ? 
The  Flamen's  knife  is  bloodless,  and  no  more 
Mexitli's  altars  soak  with  human  gore, 
No  more  the  ghastly  sacrifices  smoke 
Through  the  green  arches  of  the  Druid's  oak ; 
And  ye  of  milder  faith,  with  your  high  claim 
Of  prophet-utterance  in  the  Holiest  name, 
Will  ye  become  the  Druids  of  our  time  ! 
Set  up  your  scaffold-altars  in  our  land, 
And,  consecrators  of  Law's  darkest  crime, 

Urge  to  its  loathsome  work  the  hangman's  hand  ? 


THE  HUMAN  SACRIFICE.  307 

Beware,  —  lest  human  nature,  roused  at  last, 
From  its  peeled  shoulder  your  encumbrance  cast, 

And,  sick  to  loathing  of  your  cry  for  blood, 
Rank  ye  with  those  who  led  their  victims  round 
The  Celt's  red  altar  and  the  Indian's  mound, 

Abhorred  of  Earth  and  Heaven,  —  a  pagan  brother 
hood  ! 


THE    HUMAN    SACRIFICE 


FAR  from  his  close  and  noisome  cell, 
By  grassy  lane  and  sunny  stream, 
Blown  clover  field  and  strawberry  dell, 
And  green  and  meadow  freshness,  fell 

The  footsteps  of  his  dream. 
Again  from  careless  feet  the  dew 

Of  summer's  misty  morn  he  shook ; 
Again  with  merry  heart  he  threw 

His  light  line  in  the  rippling  brook. 
Back  crowded  all  his  school-day  joys,  — 

He  urged  the  ball  and  quoit  again, 
And  heard  the  shout  of  laughing  boys 

Come  ringing  down  the  walnut  glen. 
Again  he  felt  the  western  breeze, 

With  scent  of  flowers  and  crisping  hay ; 
And  down  again  through  wind-stirred  trees 
He  saw  the  quivering  sunlight  play. 
An  angel  in  home's  vine-hung  door, 
He  saw  his  sister  smile  once  more  ; 
Once  more  the  truant's  brown-locked  head 


308  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Upon  his  mother's  knees  was  laid, 
And  sweetly  lulled  to  slumber  there, 
With  evening's  holy  hymn  and  prayer! 

II. 

He  woke.     At  once  on  heart  and  brain 
The  present  Terror  rushed  again,  — 
Clanked  on  his  limbs  the  felon's  chain  I 
He  woke,  to  hear  the  church-tower  tell 
Time's  footfall  on  the  conscious  bell, 
And,  shuddering,  feel  that  clanging  din 
His  life's  LAST  HOUR  had  ushered  in  ; 
To  see  within  his  prison-yard, 
Through  the  small  window,  iron  barred, 
The  gallows'  shadow  rising  dim 
Between  the  sunrise  heaven  and  him,  — 
A  horror  in  God's  blessed  air,  — 

A  blackness  in  his  morning  light,  — 
Like  some  foul  devil-altar  there 

Built  up  by  demon  hands  at  night. 

And,  maddened  by  that  evil  sight, 
Dark,  horrible,  confused,  and  strange, 
A  chaos  of  wild,  weltering  change, 
All  power  of  check  and  guidance  gone, 
Dizzy  and  blind,  his  mind  swept  on. 
In  vain  he  strove  to  breathe  a  prayer, 

In  vain  he  turned  the  Holy  Book, 
He  only  heard  the  gallows-stair 

Creak  as  the  wind  its  timbers  shook. 
No  dream  for  him  of  sin  forgiven, 

While  still  that  baleful  spectre  stood, 

With  its  hoarse  murmur,  "  Blood  for  Blood!" 
Between  him  and  the  pitying  Heaven ! 


THE  HUMAN  SACRIFICE.  309 

III. 

Low  on  his  dungeon  floor  he  knelt, 

And  smote  his  breast,  and  on  his  chain, 

Whose  iron  clasp  he  always  felt, 
His  hot  tears  fell  like  rain  ; 

And  near  him,  with  the  cold,  calm  look 
And  tone  of  one  whose  formal  part, 
Unwarmed,  unsoftened  of  the  heart, 

Is  measured  out  by  rule  and  book, 

With  placid  lip  and  tranquil  blood. 

The  hangman's  ghostly  ally  stood, 

Blessing  with  solemn  text  and  word 

The  gallows-drop  and  strangling  cord  ; 

Lending  the  sacred  Gospel's  awe 

And  sanction  to  the  crime  of  Law. 


He  saw  the  victim's  tortured  brow,  — 

The  sweat  of  anguish  starting  there,  — 
The  record  of  a  nameless  woe 
In  the  dim  eye's  imploring  stare, 
Seen  hideous  through  the  long,  damp  hair, 
Fingers  of  ghastly  skin  and  bone 
Working  and  writhing  on  the  stone  !  — 
And  heard,  by  mortal  terror  wrung 
From  heaving  breast  and  stiffened  tongue, 
The  choking  sob  and  low  hoarse  prayer ; 
As  o'er  his  half-crazed  fancy  came 
A  vision  of  the  eternal  flame,  — 
Its  smoking  cloud  of  agonies,  — 
Its  demon-worm  that  never  dies,  — 
The  everlasting  rise  and  fall 
Of  fire-waves  round  the  infernal  wall ; 


MIS  CELL  A  NEO  US. 

While  high  above  that  dark  red  flood, 
Black,  giant-like,  the  gallows  stood  ; 
Two  busy  fiends  attending  there  ; 
One  with  cold  mocking  rite  and  prayer, 
The  other  with  impatient  grasp, 
Tightening  the  death-rope's  strangling  clasp 

. 
v. 

The  unfelt  rite  at  length  was  done,  — 

The  prayer  unheard  at  length  was  said,  — 
An  hour  had  passed  :  —  the  noonday  sun 

Smote  on  the  features  of  the  dead  ! 
And  he  who  stood  the  doomed  beside, 
Calm  gauger  of  the  swelling  tide 
Of  mortal  agony  and  fear, 
Heeding  with  curious  eye  and  ear 
Whate'er  revealed  the  keen  excess 
Of  man's  extremest  wretchedness  : 
And  who  in  that  dark  anguish  saw 

An  earnest  of  the  victim's  fate, 
The  vengeful  terrors  of  God's  law, 

The  kindlings  of  Eternal  hate,  — 
The  first  drops  of  that  fiery  rain 
Which  beats  the  dark  red  realm  of  pain, 
Did  he  uplift  his  earnest  cries 

Against  the  crime  of  Law,  which  gave 

His  brother  to  that  fearful  grave, 
Whereon  Hope's  moonlight  never  lies. 

And  Faith's  white  blossoms  never  wave 
To  the  soft  breath  of  Memory's  sighs  ;  — 
Which  sent  a  spirit  marred  and  stained, 
By  fiends  of  sin  possessed,  profaned, 
In  madness  and  in  blindne^    stark, 
Into  the  silent,  unknown  dark  ? 


THE  HUMAN  SACRIFICE. 

No,  —  from  the  wild  and  shrinking  dread 
With  which  he  saw  the  victim  led 

Beneath  the  dark  veil  which  divides 
Ever  the  living  from  the  dead, 

And  Nature's  solemn  secret  hides, 
The  man  of  prayer  can  only  draw 
New  reasons  for  his  bloody  law ; 
New  faith  in  staying  Murder's  hand 
By  murder  at  that  Law's  command  ; 
New  reverence  for  the  gallows-rope, 
As  human  Nature's  latest  hope  ; 
Last  relic  of  the  good  old  time, 
When  Power  found  license  for  its  crime, 
And  held  a  writhing  world  in  check 
By  that  fell  cord  about  its  neck  ; 
Stifled  Sedition's  rising  shout, 
Choked  the  young  breath  of  Freedom  out, 
And  timely  checked  the  words  which  sprung 
From  Heresy's  forbidden  tongue  ; 
While,  in  its  noose  of  terror  bound, 
The  Church  its  cherished  union  found, 
Conforming,  on  the  Moslem  plan, 
The  motley-colored  mind  of  man, 
Not  by  the  Koran  and  the  Sword, 
But  by  the  Bible  and  the  Cord ! 

VI. 

O  Thou !  at  whose  rebuke  the  grave 
Back  to  warm  life  its  sleeper  gave, 
Beneath  whose  sad  and  tearful  glance 
The  cold  and  changed  countenance 
Broke  the  still  horror  of  its  trance, 
And,  waking,  saw  with  joy  above, 
A  brother's  face  of  tenderest  love  ; 


312 


MISCELLANEOUS. 

Thou,  unto  whom  the  blind  and  lame, 
The  sorrowing  and  the  sin-sick  came, 
And  from  thy  very  garment's  hem 
Drew  life  and  healing  unto  them, 
The  burden  of  thy  holy  faith 
Was  love  and  life,  not  hate  and  death, 
Man's  demon  ministers  of  pain. 

The  fiends  of  his  revenge  were  sent 

From  thy  pure  Gospel's  element 
To  their  dark  home  again. 
Thy  name  is  Love  !    What,  then,  is  he, 

Who  in  that  name  the  gallows  rears, 
An  awful  altar  built  to  thee, 

With  sacrifice  of  blood  and  tears  ? 
O,  once  again  thy  healing  lay 

On  the  blind  eyes  which  knew  thee  not. 
And  let  the  light  of  thy  pure  day 

Melt  in  upon  his  darkened  thought. 
Soften  his  hard,  cold  heart,  and  show 

The  power  which  in  forbearance  lies, 
And  let  him  feel  that  mercy  now 

Is  better  than  old  sacrifice  ! 

VII. 

As  on  the  White  Sea's  charmed  shore, 

The  Parsee  sees  his  holy  hill 
With  dunnest  smoke-clouds  curtained  o'er 
Yet  knows  beneath  them,  evermore, 

The  low,  pale  fire  is  quivering  still; 
So,  underneath  its  clouds  of  sin, 

The  heart  of  man  retaineth  yet 
Gleams  of  its  holy  origin  ; 

And  half-quenched  stars  that  never  set, 
Dim  colors  of  its  faded  bow, 


RANDOLPH  OF  ROANOKE.  313 

And  early  beauty,  linger  there, 
And  o'er  its  wasted  desert  blow 

Faint  breathings  of  its  morning  air, 
O,  never  yet  upon  the  scroll 
Of  the  sin-stained  but  priceless  soul, 

Hath  Heaven  inscribed  "DESPAIR!" 
Cast  not  the  clouded  gem  away, 
Quench  not  the  dim  but  living  ray, 

My  brother  man,  Beware  ! 
With  that  deep  voice  which  from  the  skies 
Forbade  the  Patriarch's  sacrifice, 

God's  angel  cries,  FORBEAR  ! 


RANDOLPH    OF    ROANOKE. 

O  MOTHER  EARTH  !  upon  thy  lap 
Thy  weary  ones  receiving, 
And  o'er  them,  silent  as  a  dream, 

Thy  grassy  mantle  weaving, 
Fold  softly  in  thy  long  embrace 

That  heart  so  worn  and  broken, 
And  cool  its  pulse  of  fire  beneath 
Thy  shadows  old  and  oaken. 

Shut  out  from  him  the  bitter  word 

And  serpent  hiss  of  scorning  ; 
Nor  let  the  storms  of  yesterday 

Disturb  his  quiet  morning. 
Breathe  over  him  forgetfulness 

Of  all  save  deeds  of  kindness, 
And,  save  to  smiles  of  grateful  eyes, 

Press  down  his  lids  in  blindness. 


3  T  4  M ISC  ELL  A  NEO  US. 

There,  where  with  living  ear  and  eye 

He  heard  Potomac's  flowing, 
And,  through  his  tall  ancestral  trees, 

Saw  autumn's  sunset  glowing, 
He  sleeps,  —  still  looking  to  the  west, 

Beneath  the  dark  wood  shadow, 
As  if  he  still  would  see  the  sun 

Sink  down  on  wave  and  meadow. 

Bard,  Sage,  and  Tribune  !  —  in  himself 

All  moods  of  mind  contrasting,  — 
The  tenderest  wail  of  human  woe, 

The  scorn-like  lightning  blasting  ; 
The  pathos  which  from  rival  eyes 

Unwilling  tears  could  summon, 
The  stinging  taunt,  the  fiery  burst 

Of  hatred  scarcely  human  ! 

Mirth,  sparkling  like  a  diamond  shower; 

From  lips  of  life-long  sadness  ; 
Clear  picturings  of  majestic  thought 

Upon  a  ground  of  madness  ; 
And  over  all  Romance  and  Song 

A  classic  beauty  throwing, 
And  laurelled  Clio  at  his  side 

Her  storied  pages  showing. 


All  parties  feared  him  :  each  in  turn 

Beheld  its  schemes  disjointed, 
As  right  or  left  his  fatal  glance 

And  spectral  finger  pointed. 
Sworn  foe  of  Cant,  he  smote  it  down 

With  trenchant  wit  unsparing, 
And,  mocking,  rent  with  ruthless  hand 

The  robe  Pretence  was  wearing. 


RANDOLPH  OF  ROANOKE.  3x5 

Too  honest  or  too  proud  to  feign 

A  love  he  never  cherished, 
Beyond  Virginia's  border  line 

His  patriotism  perished. 
While  others  hailed  in  distant  skies 

Our  eagle's  dusky  pinion, 
He  only  saw  the  mountain  bird 

Stoop  o'er  his  Old  Dominion  ! 

Still  through  each  change  of  fortune  strange, 

Racked  nerve,  and  brain  all  burning. 
His  loving  faith  in  Mother-land 

Knew  never  shade  of  turning  ; 
By  Britain's  lakes,  by  Neva's  wave, 

Whatever  sky  was  o'er  him, 
He  heard  her  rivers'  rushing  sound, 

Her  blue  peaks  rose  before  him. 

He  held  his  slaves,  yet  made  withal 

No  false  and  vain  pretences, 
Nor  paid  a  lying  priest  to  seek 

For  Scriptural  defences. 
His  harshest  words  of  proud  rebuke, 

His  bitterest  taunt  and  scorning, 
Fell  fire-like  on  the  Northern  brow 

That  bent  to  him  in  fawning. 

He  held  his  slaves  ;  yet  kept  the  while 

His  reverence  for  the  Human  ; 
In  the  dark  vassals  of  his  will 

He  saw  but  Man  and  Woman  ! 
No  hunter  of  God's  outraged  poor 

His  Roanoke  valley  entered  ; 
No  trader  in  the  souls  of  men 

Across  his  threshold  ventured. 


3  r  6  MISCELLANEOUS. 

And  when  the  old  and  wearied  man 

Lay  down  for  his  last  sleeping, 
And  at  his  side,  a  slave  no  more, 

His  brother-man  stood  weeping, 
His  latest  thought,  his  latest  breath, 

To  Freedom's  duty  giving, 
With  failing  tongue  and  trembling  hand 

The  dying  blest  the  living. 

O,  never  bore  his  ancient  State 

A  truer  son  or  braver  ! 
None  trampling  with  a  calmer  scorn 

On  foreign  hate  or  favor. 
He  knew  her  faults,  yet  never  stooped 

His  proud  and  manly  feeling 
To  poor  excuses  of  the  wrong 

Or  meanness  of  concealing. 

But  none  beheld  with  clearer  eye 

The  plague-spot  o'er  her  spreading, 
None  heard  more  sure  the  steps  of  Doom 

Along  her  future  treading. 
For  her  as  for  himself  he  spake, 

When,  his  gaunt  frame  upbracing, 
He  traced  with  dying  hand  '•  REMORSE  !  " 

And  perished  in  the  tracing. 

As  from  the  grave  where  Henry  sleeps, 

From  Vernon's  weeping  willow, 
And  from  the  grassy  pall  which  hides 

The  Sage  of  Monticello, 
So  from  the  leaf-strewn  burial-stone 

Of  Randolph's  lowly  dwelling, 
Virginia  !  o'er  thy  land  of  slaves 

A  warning  voice  is  swelling  ! 


DEMOCRACY.  3 

And  hark  !  from  thy  deserted  fields 

Are  sadder  warnings  spoken, 
From  quenched  hearths,  where  thy  exiled  sons 

Their  household  gods  have  broken. 
The  curse  is  on  thee,  —  wolves  for  men, 

And  briers  for  corn-sheaves  giving  ! 
O,  more  than  all  thy  dead  renown 

Were  now  one  hero  living  ! 


DEMOCRACY. 

"  All  things  whatsoever  ye  would  that  men  should  do  to  you,  do  ye  even 
so  to  them."  —  MATTHEW  vii.  12. 

ID  EARER  of  Freedom's  holy  light, 
•L'     Breaker  of  Slavery's  chain  and  rod, 
The  foe  of  all  which  pains  the  sight, 
Or  wounds  the  generous  ear  of  God  ! 


Beautiful  yet  thy  temples  rise, 

Though  there  profaning  gifts  are  thrown  ; 
And  fires  unkindled  of  the  skies 

Are  glaring  round  thy  altar-stone. 

Still  sacred,  —  though  thy  name  be  breathed 
By  those  whose  hearts  thy  truth  deride  ; 

And  garlands,  plucked  from  thee,  are  wreathed 
Around  the  haughty  brows  of  Pride. 

O,  ideal  of  my  boyhood's  time  ! 

The  faith  in  which  my  father  stood, 
Even  when  the  sons  of  Lust  and  Crime 

Had  stained  thy  peaceful  courts  with  blood  ! 


318  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Still  to  those  courts  my  footsteps  turn, 
For  through  the  mists  which  darken  there 

I  see  the  flame  of  Freedom  burn,  — 
The  Kebla  of  the  patriot's  prayer  ! 

The  generous  feeling,  pure  and  warm, 
Which  owns  the  rights  of  all  divine,  — 

The  pitying  heart,  —  the  helping  arm,  — 
The  prompt  self-sacrifice,  —  are  thine. 

Beneath  thy  broad,  impartial  eye, 

How  fade  the  lines  of  caste  and  birth  ! 

How  equal  in  their  suffering  lie 
The  groaning  multitudes  of  earth  ! 

Still  to  a  stricken  brother  true, 

Whatever  clime  hath  nurtured  him  ; 

As  stooped  to  heal  the  wounded  Jew 
The  worshipper  of  Gerizim. 

By  misery  unrepelled,  unawed 

By  pomp  or  power,  thou  seest  a  MAN 

In  prince  or  peasant,  —  slave  or  lord,— 
Pale  priest,  or  swarthy  artisan. 

Through  all  disguise,  form,  place,  or  name, 
Beneath  the  flaunting  robes  of  sin, 

Through  poverty  and  squalid  shame, 
Thou  lookest  on  the  man  within. 

On  man,  as  man,  retaining  yet, 

Howe'er  debased  and  soiled  and  dim, 

The  crown  upon  his  forehead  set,  — 
The  immortal  gift  of  God  to  him. 


DEMOCRACY.  319 

And  there  is  reverence  in  thy  look ; 

For  that  frail  form  which  mortals  wear 
The  Spirit  of  the  Holiest  took, 

And  veiled  his  perfect  brightness  there. 

Not  from  the  shallow  babbling  fount 

Of  vain  philosophy  thou  art ; 
He  who  of  old  on  Syria's  mount 

Thrilled,  warmed,  by  turns,  the  listener's  heart, 

In  holy  words  which  cannot  die, 
In  thoughts  which  angels  leaned  to  know, 

Proclaimed  thy  message  from  on  high, — 
Thy  mission  to  a  world  of  woe. 

That  voice's  echo  hath  not  died  ! 

From  the  blue  lake  of  Galilee, 
And  Tabor's  lonely  mountain-side, 

It  calls  a  struggling  world  to  thee. 

Thy  name  and  watchword  o'er  this  land 

I  hear  in  every  breeze  that  stirs, 
And  round  a  thousand  altars  stand 

Thy  banded  party  worshippers. 

Not  to  these  altars  of  a  day, 

At  party's  call,  my  gift  I  bring  ; 
But  on  thy  olden  shrine  I  lay 

A  freeman's  dearest  offering  : 

The  voiceless  utterance  of  his  will,  — 
His  pledge  to  Freedom  and  to  Truth, 

That  manhood's  heart  remembers  still 
The  homage  of  his  generous  youth. 

Election  Day,  1843. 


3  20  MISCELLANEOUS. 


TO    RONGE. 

STRIKE  home,  strong-hearted  man  !     Down  to  the 
root 

Of  old  oppression  sink  the  Saxon  steel. 
Thy  work  is  to  hew  down.     In  God's  name  then 
Put  nerve  into  thy  task.     Let  other  men 
Plant,  as  they  may,  that  better  tree  whose  fruit 
The  wounded  bosom  of  the  Church  shall  heal. 
Be  thou  the  image-breaker.     Let  thy  blows 
Fall  heavy  as  the  Suabian's  iron  hand, 
On  crown  or  crosier,  which  shall  interpose 
Between  thee  and  the  weal  of  Father-land. 
Leave  creeds  to  closet  idlers.     First  of  all, 
Shake  thou  all  German  dream-land  with  the  fall 
Of  that  accursed  tree,  whose  evil  trunk 
Was  spared  of  old  by  Erfurt's  stalwart  monk. 
Fight  not  with  ghosts  and  shadows.     Let  us  hear 
The  snap  of  chain-links.     Let  our  gladdened  ear 
Catch  the  pale  prisoner's  welcome,  as  the  light 
Follows  thy  axe-stroke,  through  his  cell  of  night. 
Be  faithful  to  both  worlds  ;  nor  think  to  feed 
Earth's  starving  millions  with  the  husks  of  creed  : 
Servant  of  Him  whose  mission  high  and  holy 
Was  to  the  wronged,  the  sorrowing,  and  the  lowly, 
Thrust  not  his  Eden  promise  from  our  sphere, 
Distant  and  dim  beyond  the  blue  sky's  span  ; 
Like  him  of  Patmos,  see  it,  now  and  here,  — 
The  New  Jerusalem  comes  down  to  man  ! 
Be  warned  by  Luther's  error.     Nor  like  him, 
When  the  roused  Teuton  dashes  from  his  limb 


CHALKLEY  HALL.  ^2\ 

The  rusted  chain  of  ages,  help  to  bind 
His  hands  for  whom  thou  claim'st  the  freedom  of  the 
mind ! 


CHALKLEY    HALL.39 

T  T  OW  bland  and  sweet  the  greeting  of  this  breeze 
-*-  J-  To  him  who  flies 

From  crowded  street  and  red  wall's  weary  gleam, 
Till  far  behind  him  like  a  hideous  dream 
The  close  dark  city  lies  ! 

Here,  while  the  market  murmurs,  while  men  throng 

The  marble  floor 

Of  Mammon's  altar,  from  the  crush  and  din 
Of  the  world's  madness  let  me  gather  in 

My  better  thoughts  once  more. 

O,  once  again  revive,  while  on  my  ear 

The  cry  of  Gain 

And  low,  hoarse  hum  of  Traffic  die  away, 
Ye  blessed  memories  of  my  early  day 

Like  sere  grass  wet  with  rain  !  — 

Once  more  let  God's  green  earth  and  sunset  air 

Old  feelings  waken  ; 

Through  weary  years  of  toil  and  strife  and  ill, 
O,  let  me  feel  that  my  good  angel  still 

Hath  not  his  trust  forsaken. 

And  well  do  time  and  place  befit  my  mood  : 

Beneath  the  arms 

Of  this  embracing  wood  a  good  man  made 
His  home,  like  Abraham  resting  in  the  shade 

Of  Mamre's  lonely  palms. 
14* 


3  2  2  MISCELLA  NEOUS. 

Here,  rich  with  autumn  gifts  of  countless  years, 

The  virgin  soil 

Turned  from  the  share  he  guided,  and  in  rain 
And  summer  sunshine  throve  the  fruits  and  grain 

Which  blessed  his  honest  toil. 

Here,  from  his  voyages  on  the  stormy  seas, 

Weary  and  worn, 

He  came  to  meet  his  children  and  to  bless 
The  Giver  of  all  good  in  thankfulness 

And  praise  for  his  return. 

And  here  his  neighbors  gathered  in  to  greet 

Their  friend  again, 

Safe  from  the  wave  and  the  destroying  gales, , 
Which  reap  untimely  green  Bermuda's  vales, 

And  vex  the  Carib  main. 

To  hear  the  good  man  tell  of  simple  truth, 

Sown  in  an  hour 

Of  weakness  in  some  far-off  Indian  isle, 
From  the  parched  bosom  of  a  barren  soil, 

Raised  up  in  life  and  power  : 

How  at  those  gatherings  in  Barbadian  vales, 

A  tendering  love 

Came  o'er  him  like  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven. 
And  words  of  fitness  to  his  lips  were  given, 

And  strength  as  from  above  : 

How  the  sad  captive  listened  to  the  Word, 

Until  his  chain 

Grew  lighter,  and  his  wounded  spirit  felt 
The  healing  balm  of  consolation  melt 

Upon  its  life-long  pain  : 


CHALKLEY  HALL.  323 

How  the  armed  warrior  sat  him  down  to  hear 

Of  Peace  and  Truth, 

And  the  proud  ruler  and  his  Creole  dame, 
Jewelled  and  gorgeous  in  her  beauty,  came, 

And  fair  and  bright-eyed  youth. 

O,  far  away  beneath  New  England's  sky, 

Even  when  a  boy, 

Following  my  plough  by  Merrimack's  green  shore, 
His  simple  record  I  have  pondered  o'er 

With  deep  and  quiet  joy. 

And  hence  this  scene,  in  sunset  glory  warm,  — 

Its  woods  around, 

Its  still  stream  winding  on  in  light  and  shade, 
Its  soft,  green  meadows  and  its  upland  glade,  - 

To  me  is  holy  ground. 

And  dearer  far  than  haunts  where  Genius  keeps 

His  vigils  still ; 

Than  that  where  Avon's  son  of  song  is  laid, 
Or  Vaucluse  hallowed  by  its  Petrarch's  shade, 

Or  Virgil's  laurelled  hill. 

To  the  gray  walls  of  fallen  Paraclete, 

To  Juliet's  urn, 

Fair  Arno  and  Sorrento's  orange-grove, 
Where  Tasso  sang,  let  young  Romance  and  Love 

Like  brother  pilgrims  turn. 

But  here  a  deeper  and  serener  charm 

To  all  is  given  ; 

And  blessed  memories  of  the  faithful  dead 
O'er  wood  and  vale  and  meadow-stream  have  shed 

The  holy  hues  of  Heaven  ? 


324  MISCELLANEOUS. 


TO    J.  P. 

JVJ  OT  as  a  poor  requital  of  the  joy 

*  ^      With  which  my  childhood  heard  that  lay  of  thine^ 

Which,  like  an  echo  of  the  song  divine 
At  Bethlehem  breathed  above  the  Holy  Boy 

Bore  to  my  ear  the  Airs  of  Palestine,  — 
Not  to  the  poet,  but  the  man  I  bring 
In  friendship's  fearless  trust  my  offering : 
How  much  it  lacks  I  feel,  and  thou  wilt  see, 
Yet  well  I  know  that  thou  hast  deemed  with  me 
Life  all  too  earnest,  and  its  time  too  short 
For  dreamy  ease  and  Fancy's  graceful  sport ; 

And  girded  for  thy  constant  strife  with  wrong, 
Like  Nehemiah  fighting  while  he  wrought 

The  broken  walls  of  Zion,  even  thy  song 
Hath  a  rude  martial  tone,  a  blow  in  every  thought ! 


THE  CYPRESS-TREE  OF  CEYLON. 

[!BN  BATUTA,  the  celebrated  Mussulman  traveller  of  the  fourteenth 
century,  speaks  of  a  cypress-tree  in  Ceylon,  universally  held  sacred  by  the 
natives,  the  leaves  of  which  were  said  to  fall  only  at  certain  intervals,  and 
he  who  had  the  happiness  to  find  and  eat  one  of  them  was  restored,  at 
once,  to  youth  and  vigor.  The  traveller  saw  several  venerable  JOGEKS, 
or  saints,  sitting  silent  and  motionless  undw  the  tree,  patiently  awaiting 
the  falling  of  a  leaf.] 


sat  in  silent  watchfulness 
The  sacred  cypress-tree  about, 
And,  from  beneath  old  wrinkled  brows 
Their  failing  eyes  looked  out. 


THE  CYPRESS-TREE  OF  CEYLON.       325 

Gray  Age  and  Sickness  waiting  there 

Through  weary  night  and  lingering  day,  — 

Grim  as  the  idols  at  their  side, 
And  motionless  as  they. 

Unheeded  in  the  boughs  above 
The  song  of  Ceylon's  birds  was  sweet ; 

Unseen  of  them  the  island  flowers 
Bloomed  brightly  at  their  feet. 

O'er  them  the  tropic  night-storm  swept, 
The  thunder  crashed  on  rock  and  hill  , 

The  cloud-fire  on  their  eyeballs  blazed. 
Yet  there  they  waited  still ! 

What  was  the  world  without  to  them  ? 

The  Moslem's  sunset-call,  —  the  dance 
Of  Ceylon's  maids,  —  the  passing  gleam 

Of  battle-flag  and  lance  ? 

They  waited  for  that  falling  leaf 

Of  which  the  wandering  Jogees  sing  : 

Which  lends  once  more  to  wintry  age 
The  greenness  of  its  spring. 


O,  if  these  poor  and  blinded  ones 
In  trustful  patience  wait  to  feel 

O'er  torpid  pulse  and  failing  limb 
A  youthful  freshness  steal ; 

Shall  we,  who  sit  beneath  that  Tree 
Whose  healing  leaves  of  life  are  shed, 

In  answer  to  the  breath  of  prayer, 
Upon  the  waiting  head ; 


326  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Not  to  restore  our  failing  forms, 
And  build  the  spirit's  broken  shrine, 

But,  on  the  fainting  SOUL  to  shed 
A  light  and  life  divine  ; 

Shall  we  grow  weary  in  our  watch, 
And  murmur  at  the  long  delay  ? 

Impatient  of  our  Father's  time 
And  his  appointed  way  ? 

Or  shall  the  stir  of  outward  things 
Allure  and  claim  the  Christian's  eye, 

When  on  the  heathen  watcher's  ear 
Their  powerless  murmurs  die  ? 

Alas  !  a  deeper  test  of  faith 

Than  prison  cell  or  martyr's  stake, 

The  self-abasing  watchfulness 
Of  silent  prayer  may  make. 

We  gird  us  bravely  to  rebuke 

Our  erring  brother  in  the  wrong,  — 

And  in  the  ear  of  Pride  and  Power 
Our  warning  voice  is  strong. 

Easier  to  smite  with  Peter's  sword 

Than  "watch  one  hour"  in  humbling  prayer. 

Life's  "great  things,"  like  the  Syrian  lord, 
Our  hearts  can  do  and  dare. 

But  oh  !  we  shrink  from  Jordan's  side, 
From  waters  which  alone  can  save  ; 

And  murmur  for  Abana's  banks 
And  Pharpar's  brighter  wave. 


A   DREAM  OF  SUMMER. 

0  Thou,  who  in  the  garden's  shade 
Didst  wake  thy  weary  ones  again, 

Who  slumbered  at  that  fearful  hour 
Forgetful  of  thy  pain  ; 

Bend  o'er  us  now,  as  over  them, 
And  set  our  sleep-bound  spirits  free, 

Nor  leave  us  slumbering  in  the  watch 
Our  souls  should  keep  with  Thee  ! 


A    DREAM    OF    SUMMER. 

BLAND  as  the  morning  breath  of  June 
The  southwest  breezes  play  ; 
And,  through  its  haze,  the  winter  noon 

Seems  warm  as  summer's  day. 
The  snow-plumed  Angel  of  the  North 

Has  dropped  his  icy  spear  ; 
Again  the  mossy  earth  looks  forth, 
Again  the  streams  gush  clear. 

The  fox  his  hillside  cell  forsakes, 

The  muskrat  leaves  his  nook, 
The  bluebird  in  the  meadow  brakes 

Is  singing  with  the  brook. 
"  Bear  up,  O  Mother  Nature  !  "  cry 

Bird,  breeze,  and  streamlet  free ; 
"Our  winter  voices  prophesy 

Of  summer  days  to  thce  !  " 

So,  in  those  winters  of  the  soul. 
By  bitter  blasts  and  drear 


327 


328  MISCELLANEOUS. 

O'erswept  from  Memory's  frozen  pole, 

Will  sunny  days  appear. 
Reviving  Hope  and  Faith,  they  show 

The  soul  its  living  powers, 
And  how  beneath  the  winter's  snow 

Lie  germs  of  summer  flowers  ! 

The  Night  is  mother  of  the  Day, 

The  Winter  of  the  Spring, 
And  ever  upon  old  Decay 

The  greenest  mosses  cling. 
Behind  the  cloud  the  starlight  lurks, 

Through  showers  the  sunbeams  fall ; 
For  God,  who  loveth  all  his  works, 

Has  left  his  Hope  with  all ! 

4/A  ist  montht  1847. 


TO    , 

WITH   A  COPY  OF  WOOLMAN'S  JOURNAL. 
'Get  the  writings  of  John  Woolman  by  heart."  —  Essays  of  Eliet, 

TV/T  AIDEN  !  with  the  fair  brown  tresses 
^'•*      Shading  o'er  thy  dreamy  eye, 
Floating  on  thy  thoughtful  forehead 
Cloud  wreaths  of  its  sky. 

Youthful  years  and  maiden  beauty, 
Joy  with  them  should  still  abide,  — 

Instinct  take  the  place  of  Duty, 
Love,  not  Reason,  guide. 


JL 


TO  .  32g 

Ever  in  the  New  rejoicing, 

Kindly  beckoning  back  the  Old, 
Turning,  with  the  gift  of  Midas, 

All  things  into  gold. 

And  the  passing  shades  of  sadness 

Wearing  even  a  welcome  guise, 
As,  when  some  bright  lake  lies  open 

To  the  sunny  skies, 

Every  wing  of  bird  above  it, 

Every  light  cloud  floating  on, 
Glitters  like  that  flashing  mirror 

In  the  selfsame  sun. 

But  upon  thy  youthful  forehead 

Something  like  a  shadow  lies  ; 
And  a  serious  soul  is  looking 

From  thy  earnest  eyes. 

With  an  early  introversion, 

Through  the  forms  of  outward  things 
Seeking  for  the  subtle  essence, 

And  the  hidden  springs. 

Deeper  than  the  gilded  surface 

Hath  thy  wakeful  vision  seen, 
Farther  than  the  narrow  present 

Have  thy  journeyings  been. 

Thou  hast  midst  Life's  empty  noises 

Heard  the  solemn  steps  of  Time, 
And  the  low  mysterious  voices 

Of  another  clime. 


330  MISCELLANEOUS. 

All  tne  mystery  of  Being 

Hath  upon  thy  spirit  pressed,  — 

Thoughts  which,  like  the  Deluge  wanderer, 
Find  no  place  of  rest : 


That  which  mystic  Plato  pondered, 
That  which  Zeno  heard  with  awe, 

And  the  star-rapt  Zoroaster 
In  his  night-watch  saw. 


From  the  doubt  and  darkness  springing 

Of  the  dim,  uncertain  Past, 
Moving  to  the  dark  still  shadows 

O'er  the  Future  cast, 

Early  hath  Life's  mighty  question 
Thrilled  within  thy  heart  of  youth, 

With  a  deep  and  strong  beseeching : 
WHAT  and  WHERE  is  TRUTH  ? 

Hollow  creed  and  ceremonial, 
Whence  the  ancient  life  hath  fled, 

Idle  faith  unknown  to  action, 
Dull  and  cold  and  dead. 

Oracles,  whose  wire-worked  meanings, 
Only  wake  a  quiet  scorn,  — 

Not  from  these  thy  seeking  spirit 
Hath  its  answer  drawn. 

But,  like  some  tired  child  at  even, 
On  thy  mother  Nature's  breast, 

Thou,  methinks,  art  vainly  seeking 
Truth,  and  peace,  and  rest. 


O'er  that  mother's  rugged  features 
Thou  art  throwing  Fancy's  veil, 

Light  and  soft  as  woven  moonbeams, 
Beautiful  and  frail ! 

O'er  the  rough  chart  of  Existence, 
Rocks  of  sin  and  wastes  of  woe, 

Soft  airs  breathe,  and  green  leaves  tremble, 
And  cool  fountains  flow. 

And  to  thee  an  answer  cometh 
From  the  earth  and  from  the  sky, 

And  to  thee  the  hills  and  waters 
And  the  stars  reply. 

But  a  soul-sufficing  answer 

Hath  no  outward  origin  ; 
More  than  Nature's  many  voices 

May  be  heard  within. 

Even  as  the  great  Augustine 

Questioned  earth  and  sea  and  sky,40 

And  the  dusty  tomes  of  learning 
And  old  poesy. 

But  his  earnest  spirit  needed 

More  than  outward  Nature  taught,  — 

More  than  blest  the  poet's  vision 
Or  the  sage's  thought. 

Only  in  the  gathered  silence 

Of  a  calm  and  waiting  frame 
Light  and  wisdom  as  from  Heaven 

To  the  seeker  came. 


332  M ISC  ELL  A  NEO  US. 

Not  to  ease  and  aimless  quiet 
Doth  that  inward  answer  tend, 

But  to  works  of  love  and  duty 
As  our  being's  end,  — 

Not  to  idle  dreams  and  trances, 
Length  of  face,  and  solemn  tone, 

But  to  Faith,  in  daily  striving 
And  performance  shown. 

Earnest  toil  and  strong  endeavor 
Of  a  spirit  which  within 

Wrestles  with  familiar  evil 
And  besetting  sin ; 

And  without,  with  tireless  vigor, 
Steady  heart,  and  weapon  strong, 

In  the  power  of  truth  assailing 
Every  form  of  wrong. 

Guided  thus,  how  passing  lovely 
Is  the  track  of  WOOLMAN'S  feet ! 

And  his  brief  and  simple  record 
How  serenely  sweet ! 

O'er  life's  humblest  duties  throwing 
Light  the  earthling  never  knew, 

Freshening  all  its  dark  waste  places 
As  with  Hermon's  dew. 

All  which  glows  in  Pascal's  pages,  — 
All  which  sainted  Guion  sought, 

Or  the  blue-eyed  German  Rahel 
Half-unconscious  taught :  — 


333 
Beauty,  such  as  Goethe  pictured, 

Such  as  Shelley  dreamed  of,  shed 
Living  warmth  and  starry  brightness 

Round  that  poor  man's  head. 

Not  a  vain  and  cold  ideal, 

Not  a  poet's  dream  alone, 
But  a  presence  warm  and  real, 

Seen  and  felt  and  known. 

When  the  red  right-hand  of  slaughter 
Moulders  with  the  steel  it  swung, 

When  the  name  of  seer  and  poet 
Dies  on  Memory's  tongue, 

All  bright  thoughts  and  pure  shall  gather 
Round  that  meek  and  suffering  one,  — 

Glorious,  like  the  seer-seen  angel 
Standing  in  the  sun  ! 

Take  the  good  man's  book  and  ponder 

What  its  pages  say  to  thee,  — 
Blessed  as  the  hand  of  healing 

May  its  lesson  be. 

If  it  only  serves  to  strengthen 

Yearnings  for  a  higher  good, 
For  the  fount  of  living  waters 

And  diviner  food ; 

If  the  pride  of  human  reason 

Feels  its  meek  and  still  rebuke, 
Quailing  like  the  eye  of  Peter 

From  the  Just  One's  look  !  — 


334  MISCELLANEOUS. 

If  with  readier  ear  thou  heedest 
What  the  Inward  Teacher  saith, 

Listening  with  a  willing  spirit 
And  a  childlike  faith,  — 

Thou  mayst  live  to  bless  the  giver, 
Who,  himself  but  frail  and  weak, 

Would  at  least  the  highest  welfare 
Of  another  seek  ; 


And  his  gift,  though  poor  and  lowly 
It  may  seem  to  other  eyes, 

Yet  may  prove  an  angel  holy 
In  a  pilgrim's  guise. 


LEGGETT'S    MONUMENT. 

"  Ye  build  the  tombs  of  the  prophets."  —  Holy  Writ. 

\7ES,  —  pile  the  marble  o'er  him  !    It  is  well 
•^      That  ye  who  mocked  him  in  his  long  stern  strife, 

And  planted  in  the  pathway  of  his  life 
The  ploughshares  of  your  hatred  hot  from  hell, 

Who  clamored  down  the  bold  reformer  when 

He  pleaded  for  his  captive  fellow-men, 
Who  spurned  him  in  the  market-place,  and  sought 

Within  thy  walls,  St.  Tammany,  to  bind 
In  party  chains  the  free  and  honest  thought, 

The  angel  utterance  of  an  upright  mind, 
Well  is  it  now  that  o'er  his  grave  ye  raise 
The  stony  tribute  of  your  tardy  praise, 
For  not  alone  that  pile  shall  tell  to  Fame 
Of  the  brave  heart  beneath,  but  of  the  builders'  shame  ! 


SONGS    OF    LABOR, 


AND 


OTHER    POEMS. 
i  850. 


SONGS    OF    LABOR. 


I 


DEDICATION. 

WOULD  the  gift  I  offer  here 

Might  graces  from  thy  favor  take, 
And,  seen  through  Friendship's  atmosphere, 
On  softened  lines  and  coloring,  wear 
The  unaccustomed  light  of  beauty,  for  thy  sake. 

Few  leaves  of  Fancy's  spring  remain  : 

But  what  I  have  I  give  to  thee,  — 
The  o'er-sunned  bloom  of  summer's  plain, 
And  paler  flowers,  the  latter  rain 
Calls  from  the  westering  slope  of  life's  autumnal  lea. 

Above  the  fallen  groves  of  green, 

Where  youth's  enchanted  forest  stood. 

Dry  root  and  mosse'd  trunk  between, 

A  sober  after-growth  is  seen, 

As  springs  the  pine  where  falls  the  gay-leafed  maple 
wood ! 

Yet  birds  will  sing,  and  breezes  play 
Their  leaf-harps  in  the  sombre  tree  ; 

VOL.    I.  15 


338  SONGS  OF  LABOR. 

And  through  the  bleak  and  wintry  day 
It  keeps  its  steady  green  alway,  •— 
So,  even  my  after-thoughts  may  have  a  charm  for  thee. 

Art's  perfect  forms  no  moral  need, 
And  beauty  is  its  own  excuse  ; 41 
But  for  the  dull  and  flowerless  weed 
Some  healing  virtue  still  must  plead, 
And  the  rough  ore  must  find  its  honors  in  its  use. 

So  haply  these,  my  simple  lays 

Of  homely  toil,  may  serve  to  show 
The  orchard  bloom  and  tasselled  maize 
That  skirt  and  gladden  duty's  ways, 
The  unsung  beauty  hid  life's  common  things  below. 

Haply  from  them  the  toiler,  bent 
Above  his  forge  or  plough,  may  gain 

A  manlier  spirit  of  content, 

And  feel  that  life  is  wisest  spent 

Where  the  strong  working  hand  makes  strong  the  work 
ing  brain. 

The  doom  which  to  the  guilty  pair 

Without  the  walls  of  Eden  came, 
Transforming  sinless  ease  to  care 
And  rugged  toil,  no  more  shall  bear 
The  burden  of  old  crime,  or  mark  of  primal  shame. 

A  blessing  now,  —  a  curse  no  more  ; 

Since  He,  whose  name  we  breathe  with  awe, 
The  coarse  mechanic  vesture  wore,  — 
A  poor  man  toiling  with  the  poor, 
In  labor,  as  in  prayer,  fulfilling  the  same  law. 


THE  SHIP-BUILDERS. 


THE    SHIP-BUILDERS. 

r  I  ^HE  sky  is  ruddy  in  the  east, 
•*•      The  earth  is  gray  below, 
And,  spectral  in  the  river-mist, 

The  ship's  white  timbers  show. 
Then  let  the  sounds  of  measured  stroke 

And  grating  saw  begin  ; 
The  broad-axe  to  the  gnarldd  oak, 

The  mallet  to  the  pin  ! 

Hark!  —  roars  the  bellows,  blast  on  blast 

The  sooty  smithy  jars, 
And  fire-sparks,  rising  far  and  fast, 

Are  fading  with  the  stars. 
All  day  for  us  the  smith  shall  stand 

Beside  that  flashing  forge  ; 
All  day  for  us  his  heavy  hand 

The  groaning  anvil  scourge. 

From  far-off  hills,  the  panting  team 

For  us  is  toiling  near  ; 
For  us  the  raftsmen  down  the  stream 

Their  island  barges  steer. 
Rings  out  for  us  the  axe-man's  stroke 

In  forests  old  and  still,  — 
For  us  the  century-circled  oak 

Falls  crashing  down  his  hill. 

Up  !  —  up  !  —  in  nobler  toil  than  ours 
No  craftsmen  bear  a  part : 


340  SONGS  OF  LABOR. 

We  make  of  Nature's  giant  powers 

The  slaves  of  human  Art. 

Lay  rib  to  rib  and  beam  to  beam, 

And  drive  the  treenails  free  ; 
Nor  faithless  joint  nor  yawning  seam 

Shall  tempt  the  searching  sea  ! 

Where'er  the  keel  of  our  good  ship 

The  sea's  rough  field  shall  plough,  — 
Where'er  her  tossing  spars  shall  drip 

With  salt-spray  caught  below,  — 
That  ship  must  heed  her  master's  beck. 

Her  helm  obey  his  hand, 
And  seamen  tread  her  reeling  deck 

As  if  they  trod  the  land. 

Her  oaken  ribs  the  vulture-beak 

Of  Northern  ice  may  peel ; 
The  sunken  rock  and  coral  peak 

May  grate  along  her  keel ; 
And  know  we  well  the  painted  shell 

We  give  to  wind  and  wave 
Must  float,  the  sailor's  citadel, 

Or  sink,  the  sailor's  grave  ! 


Ho !  —  strike  away  the  bars  and  blocks, 

And  set  the  good  ship  free  ! 
Why  lingers  on  these  dusty  rocks 

The  young  bride  of  the  sea  ? 
Look  !  how  she  moves  adown  the  grooves. 

In  graceful  beauty  now  ! 
How  lowly  on  the  breast  she  loves 

Sinks  down  her  virgin  prow  ! 


THE  SHOEMAKERS.  34  r 

God  bless  her  !  wheresoe'er  the  breeze 

Her  snowy  wing  shall  fan, 
Aside  the  frozen  Hebrides, 

Or  sultry  Hindostan  ! 
Where'er,  in  mart  or  on  the  main, 

With  peaceful  flag  unfurled, 
She  helps  to  wind  the  silken  chain 

Of  commerce  round  the  world  ! 

Speed  on  the  ship  !  —  But  let  her  bear 

No  merchandise  of  sin, 
No  groaning  cargo  of  despair 

Her  roomy  hold  within  ; 
No  Lethean  drug  for  Eastern  lands, 

Nor  poison-draught  for  ours  ; 
But  honest  fruits  of  toiling  hands 

And  Nature's  sun  and  showers. 

Be  hers  the  Prairie's  golden  grain, 

The  desert's  golden  sand, 
The  clustered  fruits  of  sunny  Spain, 

The  spice  of  Morning-land  ! 
Her  pathway  on  the  open  main 

May  blessings  follow  free, 
And  glad  hearts  welcome  back  again 

Her  white  sails  from  the  sea  ! 


THE    SHOEMAKERS. 

T_T  O  !  workers  of  the  old  time  styled 
-  -*•     The  Gentle  Craft  of  Leather  ! 
Young  brothers  of  the  ancient  guild, 
Stand  forth  once  more  together  ! 


342  SONGS  OF  LABOR. 

Call  out  again  your  long  array, 
In  the  olden  merry  manner  ! 

Once  more,  on  gay  St.  Crispin's  day, 
Fling  out  your  blazoned  banner  ! 

Rap,  rap  !  upon  the  well-worn  stone 

How  falls  the  polished  hammer  ! 
Rap,  rap  !  the  measured  sound  has  grown 

A  quick  and  merry  clamor. 
Now  shape  the  sole  !  now  deftly  curl 

The  glossy  vamp  around  it, 
And  bless  the  while  the  bright-eyed  girl 

Whose  gentle  fingers  bound  it ! 

For  you,  along  the  Spanish  main 

A  hundred  keels  are  ploughing  ; 
For  you,  the  Indian  on  the  plain- 

His  lasso-coil  is  throwing ; 
For  you,  deep  glens  with  hemlock  dark 

The  woodman's  fire  is  lighting ; 
For  you,  upon  the  oak's  gray  bark, 

The  woodman's  axe  is  smiting. 

For  you,  from  Carolina's  pine 

The  rosin-gum  is  stealing  ; 
For  you,  the  dark-eyed  Florentine 

Her  silken  skein  is  reeling  ; 
For  you,  the  dizzy  goatherd  roams 

His  rugged  Alpine  ledges  ; 
For  you,  round  all  her  shepherd  homes. 

Bloom  England's  thorny  hedges. 

The  foremost  still,  by  day  or  night, 
On  moated  mound  or  heather. 


THE  SHOEMAKERS.  343 

Where'er  the  need  of  trampled  right 

Brought  toiling  men  together  ; 
Where  the  free  burghers  from  the  wall 

Defied  the  mail-clad  master, 
Than  yours,  at  Freedom's  trumpet-call, 

No  craftsmen  rallied  faster. 


Let  foplings  sneer,  let  fools  deride,  — 

Ye  heed  no  idle  scorner ; 
Free  hands  and  hearts  are  still  your  pride, 

And  duty  done,  your  honor. 
Ye  dare  to  trust,  for  honest  fame, 

The  jury  Time  empanels, 
And  leave  to  truth  each  noble  name 

Which  glorifies  your  annals. 

Thy  songs,  Han  Sachs,  are  living  yet, 

In  strong  and  hearty  German  ; 
And  Bloomfield's  lay,  and  Gifford's  wit, 

And  patriot  fame  of  Sherman  ; 
Still  from  his  book,  a  mystic  seer, 

The  soul  of  Behmen  teaches, 
And  England's  priestcraft  shakes  to  hear 

Of  Fox's  leathern  breeches. 

The  foot  is  yours  ;  where'er  it  falls, 

It  treads  your  well- wrought  leather, 
On  earthen  floor,  in  marble  halls, 

On  carpet,  or  on  heather. 
Still  there  the  sweetest  charm  is  found 

Of  matron  grace  or  vestal's, 
As  Hebe's  foot  bore  nectar  round 

Among  the  old  celestials  ! 


344  SONGS  OF  LABOR. 

Rap,  rap  !  —  your  stout  and  bluff  brogan, 

With  footsteps  slow  and  weary. 
May  wander  where  the  sky's  blue  span 

Shuts  down  upon  the  prairie. 
On  Beauty's  foot,  your  slippers  glance, 

By  Saratoga's  fountains, 
Or  twinkle  down  the  summer  dance 

Beneath  the  Crystal  Mountains  ! 

The  red  brick  to  the  mason's  hand, 

The  brown  earth  to  the  tiller's, 
The  shoe  in  yours  shall  wealth  command, 

Like  fairy  Cinderella's  ! 
As  they  who  shunned  the  household  maid 

Beheld  the  crown  upon  her, 
So  all  shall  see  your  toil  repaid 

With  hearth  and  home  and  honor. 

Then  let  the  toast  be  freely  quaffed, 

In  water  cool  and  brimming,  — 
"  All  honor  to  the  good  old  Craft, 

Its  merry  men  and  women  !  " 
Call  out  again  your  long  array, 

In  the  old  time's  pleasant  manner; 
Once  more,  on  gay  St.  Crispin's  day, 

Fling  out  his  blazoned  banner ! 


THE    DROVERS. 

THROUGH  heat  and  cold,  and  shower  and  sun, 
Still  onward  cheerly  driving  ! 
There  's  life  alone  in  duty  done, 
And  rest  alone  in  striving. 


THE  DROVERS.  345 

But  see  !  the  day  is  closing  cool, 

The  woods  are  dim  before  us ; 
The  white  fog  of  the  wayside  pool 

Is  creeping  slowly  o'er  us. 

The  night  is  falling,  comrades  mine, 

Our  foot-sore  beasts  are  weary, 
And  through  yon  elms  the  tavern  sign 

Looks  out  upon  us  cheery. 
The  landlord  beckons  from  his  door, 

His  beechen  fire  is  glowing  ; 
These  ample  barns,  with  feed  in  store, 

Are  filled  to  overflowing. 

From  many  a  valley  frowned  across 

By  brows  of  rugged  mountains  ; 
From  hillsides  where,  through  spongy  moss, 

Gush  out  the  river  fountains  ; 
From  quiet  farm-fields,  green  and  low, 

And  bright  with  blooming  clover  ; 
From  vales  of  corn  the  wandering  crow 

No  richer  hovers  over  ; 

Day  after  day  our  way  has  been 

O'er  many  a  hill  and  hollow  ; 
By  lake  and  stream,  by  wood  and  glen, 

Our  stately  drove  we  follow. 
Through  dust-clouds  rising  thick  and  dun, 

As  smoke  of  battle  o'er  us, 
Their  white  horns  glisten  in  the  sun, 

Like  plumes  and  crests  before  us. 

We  see  them  slowly  climb  the  hill, 
As  slow  behind  it  sinking ; 
15* 


346 


SONGS  OF  LABOR. 

Or,  thronging  close,  from  roadside  rill. 

Or  sunny  lakelet,  drinking. 
Now  crowding  in  the  narrow  road, 

In  thick  and  struggling  masses, 
They  glare  upon  the  teamster's  load 

Or  rattling  coach  that  passes. 

Anon,  with  toss  of  horn  and  tail, 

And  paw  of  hoof,  and  bellow, 
They  leap  some  farmer's  broken  pale, 

O'er  meadow-close  or  fallow. 
Forth  comes  the  startled  goodman  ;  forth 

Wife,  children,  house-dog,  sally, 
Till  once  more  on  their  dusty  path 

The  baffled  truants  rally. 

We  drive  no  starvelings,  scraggy  grown, 

Loose-legged,  and  ribbed  and  bony, 
Like  those  who  grind  their  noses  down 

On  pastures  bare  and  stony, — 
Lank  oxen,  rough  as  Indian  dogs, 

And  cows  too  lean  for  shadows, 
Disputing  feebly  with  the  frogs 

The  crop  of  saw-grass  meadows  ! 

In  our  good  drove,  so  sleek  and  fair, 

No  bones  of  leanness  rattle; 
No  tottering  hide-bound  ghosts  are  there, 

Or  Pharaoh's  evil  cattle. 
Each  stately  beeve  bespeaks  the  hand 

That  fed  him  unrepining  ; 
The  fatness  of  a  goodly  land 

In  each  dun  hide  is  shining. 


THE  DROVERS.  347 

We  've  sought  them  where,  in  warmest  nooks, 

The  freshest  feed  is  growing, 
By  sweetest  springs  and  clearest  brooks 

Through  honeysuckle  flowing ; 
Wherever  hillsides,  sloping  south, 

Are  bright  with  early  grasses, 
Or,  tracking  green  the  lowland's  drouth, 

The  mountain  streamlet  passes. 

But  now  the  day  is  closing  cool, 

The  woods  are  dim  before  us, 
The  white  fog  of  the  wayside  pool 

Is  creeping  slowly  o'er  us. 
The  cricket  to  the  frog's  bassoon 

His  shrillest  time  is  keeping  ; 
The  sickle  of  yon  setting  moon 

The  meadow-mist  is  reaping. 

The  night  is  falling,  comrades  mine, 

Our  footsore  beasts  are  weary, 
And  through  yon  elms  the  tavern  sign 

Looks  out  upon  us  cheery. 
To-morrow,  eastward  with  our  charge 

We  '11  go  to  meet  the  dawning, 
Ere  yet  the  pines  of  Kdarsarge 

Have  seen  the  sun  of  morning. 

When  snow-flakes  o'er  the  frozen  earth, 

Instead  of  birds,  are  flitting  ; 
When  children  throng  the  glowing  hearth, 

And  quiet  wives  are  knitting; 
While  in  the  fire-light  strong  and  clear 

Young  eyes  of  pleasure  glisten, 
To  tales  of  all  we  see  and  hear 

The  ears  of  home  shall  listen. 


348  SONGS  OF  LABOR. 

By  many  a  Northern  lake  and  hill, 

From  many  a  mountain  pasture, 
Shall  Fancy  play  the  Drover  still, 

And  speed  the  long  night  faster. 
Then  let  us  on,  through  shower  and  sun. 

And  heat  and  cold,  be  driving  ; 
There  's  life  alone  in  duty  done, 

And  rest  alone  in  striving. 


THE    FISHERMEN. 

HURRAH  !  the  seaward  breezes 
Sweep  down  the  bay  amain  ; 
Heave  up,  my  lads,  the  anchor  ! 

Run  up  the  sail  again  ! 
L'j.ive  to  the  lubber  landsmen 
The  rail-car  and  the  steed  ; 
The  stars  of  heaven  shall  guide  us, 
The  breath  of  heaven  shall  speed. 

From  the  hill-top  looks  the  steeple, 

And  the  light-house  from  the  sand ; 
And  the  scattered  pines  are  waving 

Their  farewell  from  the  land. 
One  glance,  my  lads,  behind  us, 

For  the  homes  we  leave  one  sigh, 
Ere  we  take  the  change  and  chances 

Of  the  ocean  and  the  sky. 

Now,  brothers,  for  the  icebergs 
Of  frozen  Labrador, 


THE  FISHERMEN. 

Floating  spectral  in  the  moonshine, 
Along  the  low,  black  shore  ! 

Where  like  snow  the  gannet's  feathers 
On  Brador's  rocks  are  shed, 

And  the  noisy  murr  are  flying, 
Like  black  scuds,  overhead  ; 

Where  in  mist  the  rock  is  hiding, 

And  the  sharp  reef  lurks  below, 
And  the  white  squall  smites  in  summer, 

And  the  autumn  tempests  blow ; 
Where,  through  gray  and  rolling  vapor, 

From  evening  unto  morn, 
A  thousand  boats  are  hailing, 

Horn  answering  unto  horn. 

Hurrah  !  for  the  Red  Island, 

With  the  white  cross  on  its  crown  ! 
Hurrah !  for  Meccatina, 

And  its  mountains  bare  and  brown  ! 
Where  the  Caribou's  tall  antlers 

O'er  the  dwarf-wood  freely  toss, 
And  the  footstep  of  the  Mickmack 

Has  no  sound  upon  the  moss. 

There  we  '11  drop  our  lines,  and  gather 

Old  Ocean's  treasures  in, 
Where'er  the  mottled  mackerel 

Turns  up  a  steel-dark  fin. 
The  sea  's  our  field  of  harvest, 

Its  scaly  tribes  our  grain  ; 
We  '11  reap  the  teeming  waters 

As  at  home  they  reap  the  plain  I 


350 


SOA'GS  OF  LABOR. 

Our  wet  hands  spread  the  carpet, 

And  light  the  hearth  of  home  ; 
From  our  fish,  as  in  the  old  time, 

The  silver  coin  shall  come. 
As  the  demon  fled  the  chamber 

Where  the  fish  of  Tobit  lay, 
So  ours  from  all  our  dwellings 

Shall  frighten  Want  away. 

Though  the  mist  upon  our  jackets 

In  the  bitter  air  congeals, 
And  our  lines  wind  stiff  and  slowly 

From  off  the  frozen  reel ; 
Though  the  fog  be  dark  around  us, 

And  the  storm  blow  high  and  loud, 
We  will  whistle  down  the  wild  wind, 

And  laugh  beneath  the  cloud  ! 

In  the  darkness  as  in  daylight, 

On  the  water  as  on  land, 
God's  eye  is  looking  on  us, 

And  beneath  us  is  his  hand  ! 
Death  will  find  us  soon  or  later, 

On  the  deck  or  in  the  cot ; 
And  we  cannot  meet  him  better 

Than  in  working  out  our  lot. 

Hurrah  !  —  hurrah  !  —  the  west- wind 

Comes  freshening  down  the  bay, 
The  rising  sails  are  filling,  — 

Give  way,  my  lads,  give  way ! 
Leave  the  coward  landsman  clinging 

To  the  dull  earth,  like  a  weed,  — 
The  stars  of  heaven  shall  guide  us, 

The  breath  of  heaven  shall  speed  ! 


THE    HUSKERS.  351 


THE    HUSKERS. 


T  T  was  late  in  mild  October,  and  the  long  autumnal 
rain 

Had  left  the  summer  harvest-fields  all  green  with  grass 
again  ; 

The  first  sharp  frosts  had  fallen,  leaving  all  the  wood 
lands  gay 

With  the  hues  of  summer's  rainbow,  or  the  meadow- 
flowers  of  May. 

Through  a  thin,  dry  mist,  that  morning,  the  sun  rose 

broad  and  red, 

At  first  a  rayless  disk  of  fire,  he  brightened  as  he  sped  ; 
Yet,  even  his  noontide  glory  fell  chastened  and  subdued, 
On  the  corn-fields  and  the  orchards,  and  softly  pictured 

wood. 

And  all  that  quiet  afternoon,  slow  sloping  to  the  night, 
He  wove  with  golden  shuttle  the  haze  with  yellow  light ; 
Slanting  through  the  painted  beeches,  he  glorified  the 

hill; 
And,  beneath  it,  pond  and  meadow  lay  brighter,  greener 

still. 

And  shouting  boys  in  woodland  haunts  caught  glimp 
ses  of  that  sky, 

Flecked  by  the  many-tinted  leaves,  and  laughed,  they 
knew  not  why  ; 

A-nd  school-girls,  gay  with  aster-flowers,  beside  the 
meadow  brooks, 

Mingled  the  glow  of  autumn  with  the  sunshine  of  sweet 
looks. 


352  SONGS  OF  LABOR. 

From  spire  and  barn,  looked  westerly  the  patient  weath- 

cocks ; 
But  even  the  birches  on  the  hill  stood  motionless  as 

rocks. 
No  sound  was  in  the  woodlands,  save   the  squirrel's 

dropping  shell, 
And  the  yellow  leaves  among  the  boughs,  low  rustling 

as  they  fell. 

The  summer  grains  were  harvested  ;  the  stubble-fields 

lay  dry, 
Where  June  winds  rolled,  in  light  and  shade,  the  pale 

green  waves  of  rye 
But  still,  on  gentle  hill-slopes,  in  valleys  fringed  with 

wood, 
Ungathered,  bleaching  in  the  sun,  the  heavy  corn  crop 

stood. 

Bent  low,  by  autumn's  wind  and  rain,  through  husks 
that,  dry  and  sere, 

Unfolded  from  their  ripened  charge,  shone  out  the  yel 
low  ear  ; 

Beneath,  the  turnip  lay  concealed,  in  many  a  verdant 
fold, 

And  glistened  in  the  slanting  light  the  pumpkin's  sphere 
of  gold. 

There  wrought  the  busy  harvesters  ;  and  many  a  creak 
ing  wain 

Bore  slowly  to  the  long  barn-floor  its  load  of  husk  and 
grain  ; 

Till  broad  and  red,  as  when  he  rose,  the  sun  sank  down, 
at  last, 

And,  like  a  merry  guest's  farewell,  the  day  in  bright 
ness  passed. 


THE  HUSKERS.  353 

And  lo  !    as  through  the  western  pines,   on  meadow, 

stream,  and  pond, 

Flamed  the  red  radiance  of  a  sky,  set  all  afire  beyond, 
Slovvly  o'er  the  eastern  sea-bluffs  a  milder  glory  shone, 
And  the  sunset  and  the  moonrise  were  mingled  into  one ! 

As  thus  into  the  quiet  night  the  twilight  lapsed  away, 

And  deeper  in  the  brightening  moon  the  tranquil  shad 
ows  lay  ; 

From  many  a  brown  old  farm-house,  and  hamlet  with 
out  name, 

Their  milking  and  their  home-tasks  done,  the  merry 
huskers  came. 

Swung  o'er  the  heaped-up  harvest,  from  pitchforks  in 
the  mow, 

Shone  dimly  down  the  lanterns  on  the  pleasant  scene 
below  ; 

The  growing  pile  of  husks  behind,  the  golden  ears  be 
fore, 

And  laughing  eyes  and  busy  hands  and  brown  cheeks 
glimmering  o'er. 

Half  hidden  in  a  quiet  nook,  serene  of  look  and  heart 

Talking  their  old  times  over,  the  old  men  sat  apart ; 

While,  up  and  down  the  unhusked  pile,  or  nestling  in  its 
shade, 

At  hide-and-seek,  with  laugh  and  shout,  the  happy  chil 
dren  played. 

Urged  by  the"  gocd  host's  daughter,  a  maiden  young 

and  fair, 
Lifting  to  light  her  sweet  blue  eyes  and  pride  of  soft 

brown  hair, 


354  SONGS  OF  LABOR. 

The  master  of  the  village  school,  sleek  of  hair  and 

smooth  of  tongue, 
To  the  quaint  tune  of  some  old  psalm,  a  husking-ballad 

sung. 


THE    CORN-SONG. 

HEAP  high  the  farmer's  wintry  hoard  ! 
Heap  high  the  golden  corn  ! 
No  richer  gift  has  Autumn  poured 
From  out  her  lavish  horn  ! 

Let  other  lands,  exulting,  glean 

The  apple  from  the  pine, 
The  orange  from  its  glossy  green, 

The  cluster  from  the  vine  ; 

We  better  love  the  hardy  gift 

Our  rugged  vales  bestow, 
To  cheer  us  when  the  storm  shall  drift 

Our  harvest-fields  with  snow. 

Through  vales  of  grass  and  meads  of  flowers 
Our  ploughs  their  furrows  made, 

While  on  the  hills  the  sun  and  showers 
Of  changeful  April  played. 

We  dropped  the  seed  o'er  hill  and  plain, 

Beneath  the  sun  of  May, 
And  frightened  from  our  sprouting  grain 

The  robber  crows  away. 


THE   CORN-SONG. 

All  through  the  long,  bright  days  of  June 
Its  leaves  grew  green  and  fair, 

And  waved  in  hot  midsummer's  noon 
Its  soft  and  yellow  hair. 

And  now,  with  autumn's  moonlit  eves, 

Its  harvest-time  has  come, 
We  pluck  away  the  frosted  leaves, 

And  bear  the  treasure  home. 

There,  richer  than  the  fabled  gift 

Apollo  showered  of  old, 
Fair  hands  the  broken  grain  shall  sift, 

And  knead  its  meal  of  gold. 

Let  vapid  idlers  loll  in  silk 

Around  their  costly  board  ; 
Give  us  the  bowl  of  samp  and  milk, 

By  homespun  beauty  poured  ! 

Where'er  the  wide  old  kitchen  hearth 

Sends  up  its  smoky  curls, 
Who  will  not  thank  the  kindly  earth, 

And  bless  our  farmer  girls  ! 

Then  shame  on  all  the  proud  and  vain, 

Whose  folly  laughs  to  scorn 
The  blessing  of  our  hardy  grain, 

Our  wealth  of  golden  corn  ! 

Let  earth  withhold  her  goodly  root, 

Let  mildew  blight  the  rye, 
Give  to  the  worm  the  orchard's  fruit, 

The  wheat-field  to  the  fly  : 


35, 


356  SONGS  OF  LABOR. 

But  let  the  good  old  crop  adorn 
The  hills  our  fathers  trod  ; 

Still  let  us,  for  his  golden  corn. 
Send  up  our  thanks  to  God  1 


THE    LUMBERMEN. 

WILDLY  round  our  woodland  quarters 
Sad-voiced  Autumn  grieves  ; 
Thickly  down  these  swelling  waters 

Float  his  fallen  leaves. 
Through  the  tall  and  naked  timber, 

Column-like  and  old, 
Gleam  the  sunsets  of  November 
From  their  skies  of  gold. 

O'er  us,  to  the  southland  heading, 

Screams  the  gray  wild-goose  ; 
On  the  night-frost  sounds  the  treading 

Of  the  brindled  moose. 
Noiseless  creeping,  while  we  're  sleeping, 

Frost  his  task-work  plies  ; 
Soon,  his  icy  bridges  heaping, 

Shall  our  log-piles  rise. 

When,  with  sounds  of  smothered  thunder, 

On  some  night  of  rain, 
Lake  and  river  break  asunder 

Winter's  weakened  chain, 
Down  the  wild  March  flood  shall  bear  them 

To  the  saw-mill's  wheel, 


JffE    LUMBERMEN.  357 

Or  where  Steam,  the  slave,  shall  tear  them 
With  his  teeth  of  steel. 


Be  it  starlight,  be  it  moonlight, 

In  these  vales  below, 
When  the  earliest  beams  of  sunlight 

Streak  the  mountain's  snow, 
Crisps  the  hoar-frost,  keen  and  early, 

To  our  hurrying  feet. 
And  the  forest  echoes  clearly 

AH  our  blows  repeat. 

Where  the  crystal  Ambijejis 

Stretches  broad  and  clear, 
And  Millnoket's  pine-black  ridges 

Hide  the  browsing  deer  : 
Where,  through  lakes  and  wide  morasses. 

Or  t1  rough  rocky  walls, 
Swift  and  strong,  Penobscot  passes 

White  with  foamy  falls  ; 

Where,  through  clouds,  are  glimpses  given 

Of  Katahdin's  sides, — 
Rock  and  forest  piled  to  heaven, 

Torn  and  ploughed  by  slides  ! 
Far  below,  the  Indian  trapping, 

In  the  sunshine  warm  ; 
Far  above,  the  snow-cloud  wrapping 

Half  the  peak  in  storm  ! 

Where  are  mossy  carpets  better 

Than  the  Persian  weaves, 
And  than  Eastern  perfumes  sweeter 

Seem  the  fading  leaves  ; 


358  SONGS  OF  LABOR, 

And  a  music  wild  and  solemn, 
From  the  pine-tree's  height, 

Rolls  its  vast  and  sea-like  volume 
On  the  wind  of  night ; 

Make  we  here  our  camp  of  winter  ; 

And,  through  sleet  and  snow, 
Pitchy  knot  and  beechen  splinter 

On  our  hearth  shall  glow. 
Here,  with  mirth  to  lighten  duty, 

We  shall  lack  alone 
Woman's  smile  and  girlhood's  beauty. 

Childhood's  lisping  tone. 

But  their  hearth  is  brighter  burning 

For  our  toil  to-day  ; 
And  the  welcome  of  returning 

Shall  our  loss  repay, 
When,  like  seamen  from  the  waters, 

From  the  woods  we  come, 
Greeting  sisters,  wives,  and  daughters, 

Angels  of  our  home  ! 

Not  for  us  the  measured  ringing 

From  the  village  spire, 
Not  for  us  the  Sabbath  singing 

Of  the  sweet-voiced  choir  : 
Ours  the  old,  majestic  temple, 

Where  God's  brightness  shines 
Down  the  dome  so  grand  and  ample, 

Propped  by  lofty  pines  ! 

Through  each  branch-enwoven  skylight 
Speaks  He  in  the  breeze, 


THE  LUMBERMEN.  359 

As  of  old  beneath  the  twilight 

Of  lost  Eden's  trees  ! 
For  his  ear,  the  inward  feeling 

Needs  no  outward  tongue  ; 
He  can  see  the  spirit  kneeling 

While  the  axe  is  swung. 

Heeding  truth  alone,  and  turning 

From  the  false  and  dim, 
Lamp  of  toil  or  altar  burning 

Are  alike  to  Him. 
Strike,  then,  comrades  !  —  Trade  is  waiting 

On  our  rugged  toil ; 
Far  ships  waiting  for  the  freighting 

Of  our  woodland  spoil  ! 


Ships,  whose  traffic  links  these  highlands, 

Bleak  and  cold,  of  ours, 
With  the  citron-planted  islands 

Of  a  clime  of  flowers  ; 
To  our  frosts  the  tribute  bringing 

Of  eternal  heats  ; 
In  our  lap  of  winter  flinging 

Tropic  fruits  and  sweets. 

Cheerly  on  the  axe  of  labor 

Let  the  sunbeams  dance, 
Better  than  the  flash  of  sabre 

Or  the  gleam  of  lance  ! 
Strike  !  — With  every  blow  is  given 

Freer  sun  and  sky, 
And  the  long-hid  earth  to  heaven 

Looks,  with  wondering  eye ! 


SONGS   OF  LABOR. 

Loud  behind  us  grow  the  murmurs 

Of  the  age  to  come  ; 
Clang  of  smiths,  and  tread  of  farmers. 

Bearing  harvest  home ! 
Here  her  virgin  lap  with  treasures 

Shall  the  green  earth  fill ; 
Waving  wheat  and  golden  maize-ears 

Crown  each  beechen  hill. 

Keep  who  will  the  city's  alleys, 

Take  the  smooth-shorn  plain, — 
Give  to  us  the  cedar  valleys, 

Rocks  and  hills  of  Maine  ! 
In  our  North-land,  wild  and  woody, 

Let  us  still  have  part ; 
Rugged  nurse  and  mother  sturdy, 

Hold  us  to  thy  heart ! 

O,  our  free  hearts  beat  the  warmer 

For  thy  breath  of  snow  ; 
And  our  trend  is  all  the  firmer 

For  thy  rocks  below. 
Freedom,  hand  in  hand  with  Labor, 

Walketh  strong  and  brave  ; 
On  the  forehead  of  his  neighbor 

No  man  writeth  Slave  ! 

Lo,  the  day  breaks  !  old  Katahdin's 

Pine-trees  show  its  fires, 
While  from  these  dim  forest  gardens 

Rise  their  blackened  spires. 
Up,  my  comrades  !  up  and  doing! 

Manhood's  rugged  play 
Still  renewing,  bravely  hewing 

Through  the  world  our  way ! 


NOTES. 


IT  may  be  known  to  Whittier  collectors 
generally  (although  it  is  by  no  means 
certain)  that  one  of  the  early  productions 
of  the  Quaker  poet  was  "A  New  Year's 
Address  to  the  Patrons  of  the  Essex  Ga 
zette"  of  Haverhill,  in  1828.  But  it  cannot 
be  generally  known  that  it  was  to  Dr.  E. 
Weld  of  Hallowell,  Me.,  that  Whittier  made 
acknowledgment  of  that  inspiring  stimulus 
which  led  'him  to  write  verse.  Charles  E. 
Goodspeed  of  this  city  recently  came  into 
possession  of  a  letter  in  which  this  ac 
knowledgment  is  made,  and  he  was  stimu 
lated  to  look  up  the  carrier's  address  of 
the  Essex  Gazette,  which  Is  not  included 
in  Whittier's  published  works.  As  a  re- 
eult  there  soon  will  be  issued  sixty  copies 
of  the  letter  and  the  ad-dress  to  which  it 
refers,  not  because  the  poem  adds  in  the 
slightest  to  Whittier's  literary  fame,  but 
because  it  makes  Whittier  collections  more 
complete.  The  letter,  which  by  the  cour 
tesy  of  the  publisher  is  here  printed  for 
the  first  time,  is  as  follows: 

Haverihill  5th  of  3rd  Mo.,  1828. 

Friend  Weld— I  rece'ed  thy  letter  a   few 
days  ago,  and  am  very  much  oibliig'd  to  thee 
for  it.     I  am  happy  to  think  that  I  am  not 
entirely  forgotten  by  those  for  whom  I    have  i 
always  entertained  thie  most  sincere  regard.  ! 
I 'recollect  perfectly  well  that   (on  one  oc-  } 
casion  in  particular)  after  hearing  thy  ani-  • 
mated   praises   of   Milton   and   Thomson,    I 
attempted  to  bring  a  few  words  to  rhyme  j 
and  measure:  but  whether  it  was  poetry,  or  ' 
prose   run   mad,    or   as   Burns   says   "some-  j 
thing    that   was   rightly   neither,"    I    cannot 
now  ascertain.    Certain  I  am,  however,  that 
it  was  in  a  great  measure  owing  to  thy  ad 
miration  of  those  poets,  that  I  ventur'd  on 
that  path  which  their  memory  has  hallow'd, 
In  pursuit  of— I  myself  'hardly  know  what— 
Time,   alone,    must   determine.      The   Rocks 
Bridge    will    I    suppose    be    completed    this 
year.      I    am    really    glad   of   it,    but    it    un 
fortunately    happens   that   I    have    incurr'd 
the  displeasure  o-f  some  of  the  worthies  of 
that  Village. 

An  unlucky  New  Year's  Address  pub- 
lish'd  in  the  Ess.  Gaz.  has  oall'd  down 
upon  me  the  anathemas  of  some  half  a 
dozen,  wiho  felt  that  they  or  their  follies 
were  alluded  to.  I  have  learn' d,  however, 
that  it  is  an  unthankful  task  to  lash  vice 
and  prejudice,  for 

"None   e'er  felt   the   halter   draw 
With  good  opinion  of  the  law." 

I  really  do  not  know  of  any  thing  to  tell 
thee  of,  which  will  make  my  scrawl  inter-  ' 
esting.  My  sister  Mary  is  married  to  Capt.  I 
Caldwell — and,  forgive  my  egotism,  I  am  a 
tall,  dark-complexion'd,  and  I  am  sorry  to 
say  rather  ordinary-looking  fellow,  bashful, 
yet  proud  as  any  poet  should  be,  and  believ 
ing  with  the  honest  Scotchman  that  "I  hae 
muckle  reason  to  'be  thankful  that  I  a.m  as 
I  a>m."  If  I  should  'have  an  opportunity  to 
visit  thee  I  should  rejoice  at  it.  If  thou 
shouldst  come  this  way  do  not  fail  to  call 
&  see  us,  for,  believe  me,  all  would  be  ex 
tremely  glad  to  see  thee.  A  letter  from 
thee  would  be  thankfully  rece'i'd  by 
Thy  friend, 

J.  G.  WHITTIER. 

P.   S.     Please  send  the  Prospectus  as  soon 
as  possible.  J.  G.  W. 

Dr.   E.  Weldt  Hallowell,   Me. 


N  OT  E  Sd 


NOTE  i,  page  3. 

MOGG  MEGONE,  or  Hegone,  was  a  leader  among  the  Saco  Indians,  in 
the  bloody  war  of  1677.  He  attacked  and  captured  the  garrison  at  Black 
Point,  October  i2th  of  that  year ;  and  cut  off,  at  the  same  time,  a  party  of 
Englishmen  near  Saco  River.  From  a  deed  signed  by  this  Indian  in 
1664,  and  from  other  circumstances,  it  seems  that,  previous  to  the  war,  he 
had  mingled  much  with  the  colonists.  On  this  account,  he  was  probably 
selected  by  the  principal  sachems  as  their  agent  in  the  treaty  signed  in 

November,  1676. 

NOTE  2,  page  4. 

Baron  de  St.  Castine  came  to  Canada  in  1644.  Leaving  his  civilized 
companions,  he  plunged  into  the  great  wilderness,  and  settled  among  the 
Penobscot  Indians,  near  the  mouth  of  their  noble  river.  He  here  took  for 
his  wives  the  daughters  of  the  great  Modocawando,  —  the  most  powerful 
sachem  of  the  East.  His  castle  was  plundered  by  Governor  Andros,  dur 
ing  his  reckless  administration  ;  and  the  enraged  Baron  is  supposed  to 
have  excited  the  Indians  into  open  hostility  to  the  English. 

NOTE  3,  page  4. 

The  owner  and  commander  of  the  garrison  at  Black  Point,  which  Mogg 
attacked  and  plundered.  He  was  an  old  man  at  the  period  to  which  the 
tale  relates. 

NOTE  4,  page  5. 

Major  Phillips,  one  of  the  principal  men  of  the  Colony.  His  garrison 
sustained  a  long  and  terrible  siege  by  the  savages.  As  a  magistrate  and  a 
gentleman,  he  exacted  of  his  plebeian  neighbors  a  remarkable  degree  of 
deference.  The  Court  Records  of  the  settlement  inform  us  that  an  indi 
vidual  was  fined  for  the  heinous  offence  of  saying  that  "  Major  Phillips's 
mare  was  as  lean  as  an  Indian  dog." 


364  NOTES. 

NOTE  5,  page  5 

Captain  Harmon,  of  Georgeana,  now  York,  was,  for  many  years,  ths 
terror  of  the  Eastern  Indians.  In  one  of  his  expeditions  up  the  Kennebec 
River,  at  the  head  of  a  party  of  rangers,  he  discovered  twenty  of  the  sav 
ages  asleep  by  a  large  fire.  Cautiously  creeping  towards  them  until  he 
was  certain  of  his  aim,  he  ordered  his  men  to  single  out  their  objects. 
The  first  discharge  killed  or  mortally  wounded  the  whole  number  of  the 
unconscious  sleepers. 

NOTE  6,  page  5. 

Wood  Island,  near  the  mouth  of  the  Saco.  It  was  visited  by  the  Sieur 
de  Monts  and  Champlain,  in  1603.  The  following  extract,  from  the  jour 
nal  of  the  latter,  relates  to  it :  "  Having  left  the  Kennebec,  we  ran  along 
the  coast  to  the  westward,  and  cast  anchor  under  a  small  island,  near  the 
main-land,  where  we  saw  twenty  or  more  natives.  I  here  visited  an 
island,  beautifully  clothed  with  a  fine  growth  of  forest  trees,  particularly 
of  the  oak  and  walnut ;  and  overspread  with  vines,  that,  in  their  season, 
produce  excellent  grapes.  We  named  it  the  island  of  Bacchus."  —  Let 
Voyages  de  Sieur  Cham^iain,  Liv.  2,  c.  8. 

NOTE  7,  page  5. 

John  Bonython  was  the  son  of  Richard  Bonython,  Gent.,  one  of  the 
most  efficient  and  able  magistrates  of  the  Colony.  John  proved  to  be  "a 
degenerate  plant."  In  1635  we  find,  by  the  Court  Records,  that,  for  some 
offence,  he  was  fined  405.  In  1640  he  was  fined  for  abuse  toward  R.  Gib 
son,  the  minister,  and  Mary  his  wife.  Soon  after  he  was  fined  for  disor 
derly  conduct  in  the  house  of  his  father.  In  1645  the  "  Great  and 
General  Court "  adjudged  "  John  Bonython  outlawed,  and  incapable 
of  any  of  his  Majesty's  laws,  and  proclaimed  him  a  rebel."  (Court  Rec 
ords  of  the  Province,  1645  )  In  1651  he  bade  defiance  to  the  laws  of 
Massachusetts,  and  was  again  outlawed.  He  acted  independently  of  all 
law  and  authority ;  and  hence,  doubtless,  his  burlesque  title  of  "  The 
Sagamore  of  Saco,"  which  has  come  down  to  the  present  generation  in  the 
following  epitaph :  — 

"  Here  lies  Bonython  ;  the  Sagamore  of  Saco, 
He  lived  a  rogue,  and  died  a  knave,  and  went  to  Hobomoko." 

By  some  means  or  other,  he  obtained  a  large  estate.  In  this  poem,  I  have 
taken  some  liberties  with  him,  not  strictly  warranted  by  historical  facts, 
although  the  conduct  imputed  to  him  is  in  keeping  with  his  general  char 
acter.  Over  the  last  years  of  his  life  lingers  a  deep  obscurity.  Even  the 
manner  of  his  death  is  uncertain.  He  was  supposed  to  have  been  killed 
by  the  Indians ;  but  this  is  doubted  by  the  able  and  indefatigable  author 
of  the  History  of  Saco  and  Biddeford.  —  Part  I.  p.  115. 


NOTES.  365 


NOTE  8,  page  6. 

Foxwell's  Brook  flows  from  a  marsh  or  bog,  called  the  '  ^eath,"  in 
Saco,  containing  thirteen  hundred  acres.  On  this  brook,  an£  wvrounded 
by  wild  and  romantic  scenery,  is  a  beautiful  waterfall,  of  mo>^  vhan  sixty 
feet. 

NOTE  9,  page  8. 

Hiacoomes,  the  first  Christian  preacher  on  Martha's  Vineyard ;  for  a 
biography  of  whom  the  reader  is  referred  to  Increase  Mayhew's  account 
of  the  Praying  Indians,  1726.  The  following  is  related  of  him:  "One 
Lord's  day,  after  meeting,  where  Hiacoomes  had  been  preaching,  there 
came  in  a  Powwaw  very  angry,  and  said,  '  I  know  all  the  meeting  Indians 
are  liars.  You  say  you  don't  care  for  the  Powwaws  ' ;  —  then  calling  two 
or  three  of  them  by  name,  he  railed  at  them,  and  told  them  they  were 
deceived,  for  the  Powwaws  could  kill  all  the  meeting  Indians,  if  they  set 
about  it.  But  Hiaccomes  told  him  that  he  would  be  in  the  midst  of  all 
the  Powwaws  in  the  island,  and  they  should  do  the  utmost  they  could 
against  him  ;  and  when  they  should  do  their  worst  by  their  witchcraft  to 
kill  him,  he  would  without  fear  set  himself  against  them,  by  remembering 
Jehovah.  He  told  them  also  he  did  put  all  the  Powwaws  under  his  heel. 
Such  was  the  faith  of  this  good  man.  Nor  were  these  Powwaws  ever  able 
to  do  these  Christian  Indians  any  hurt,  though  others  were  frequently  hurt 
and  killed  by  them."  —  Mayhew,  pp.  6,  7,  c.  i. 

NOTE  10,  page  12. 

"  The  toothache,"  says  Roger  Williams  in  his  observations  upon  the 
language  and  customs  of  the  New  England  tribes,  "  is  the  only  paine 
which  will  force  their  stoute  hearts  to  cry."  He  afterwards  remarks  that 
even  the  Indian  women  never  cry  as  he  has  heard  "  some  of  their  men  in 

this  paine." 

NOTE  u,  page  14. 

Wuttamuttata,  "  Let  us  drink."  Weekan,  "  It  is  sweet."  Vide  Roper 
Williams's  Key  to  the  Indian  Language,  "  in  that  parte  of  America  called 
New  England."  London,  1643,  p.  35. 

NOTE  12,  page  16. 

Wetuomanit,  —  a  house  god,  or  demon.  "  They  —  the  Indians  —  have 
given  me  the  names  of  thirty-seven  gods,  which  I  have,  all  which  in  their 
solemne  Worships  they  invocate  !  "  R.  Williams's  Briefe  Observations 
of  the  Customs,  Manners,  Worships,  &c.,  of  the  Natives,  in  Peace  and 
Warre,  in  Life  and  Death  :  on  all  which  is  added  Spiritual  Observations, 
General  and  Particular,  of  Chiefe  and  Special  use  —  upon  all  occasions  — 
to  all  the  English  inhabiting  these  parts ;  yet  Pleasant  and  Profitable  tft 
the  view  of  all  Mene.  —  p.  izo,  c.  21. 


366 


NOTES. 


NOTE  13,  page  19. 

Mt.  Desert  Island,  the  Bald  Mountain  upon  which  overlooks  French 
man's  and  Penobscot  Bay.  It  was  upon  this  island  that  the  Jesuits  made 
their  earliest  settlement. 

NOTE  14,  page  21. 

Father  Hennepin,  a  missionary  among  the  Iroquois,  mentions  that  the 
Indians  believed  him  to  be  a  conjurer,  and  that  they  were  particularly 
afraid  of  a  bright  silver  chalice  which  he  had  in  his  possession.  "  The 
Indians,"  says  Pere  Jerome  Lallamant,  "fear  us  as  the  greatest  sorcerers 

on  earth." 

NOTE  15,  page  23. 

Bomazeen  is  spoken  of  by  Penhallow,  as  "  the  famous  warrior  and  chief 
tain  of  Norridgewock."  He  was  killed  in  the  attack  of  the  English  upon 
Norridgewock,  in  1724. 

NOTE  1 6,  page  24. 

Pere  Ralle,  or  Rasles,  was  one  of  the  most  zealous  and  indefatigable  of 
that  band  of  Jesuit  missionaries,  who,  at  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  penetrated  the  forests  of  America  with  the  avowed  object  of  con 
verting  the  heathen.  The  first  religious  mission  of  the  Jesuits,  to  the  sav 
ages  in  North  America,  was  in  1611.  The  zeal  of  the  fathers  for  the  con 
version  of  the  Indians  to  the  Catholic  faith  knew  no  bounds.  For  this, 
they  plunged  into  the  depths  of  the  wilderness  ;  habituated  themselves  to 
all  the  hardships  and  privations  of  the  natives  ;  suffered  cold,  hunger,  and 
some  of  them  death  itself,  by  the  extremest  tortures.  Pere  Brebeuf,  after 
laboring  in  the  cause  of  his  mission  for  twenty  years,  together  with  his 
companion,  Pere  Lallamant,  was  burned  alive.  To  these  might  be  added 
the  names  of  those  Jesuits  who  were  put  to  death  by  the  Iroquois,  — 
Daniel,  Gamier,  Buteaux,  La  Riborerde,  Goupil,  Constantin,  and  Liege- 
ouis.  "For  bed,"  says  Father  Lallamant,  in  his  Relation  de  ce qui s'est 
dans  le  fays  des  Hurons,  1640,  c.  3,  "we  have  nothing  but  a  miserable 
piece  of  bark  of  a  tree  ;  for  nourishment,  a  handful  or  two  of  corn,  either 
roasted  or  soaked  in  water,  which  seldom  satisfies  our  hunger ;  and  after 
all,  not  venturing  to  perform  even  the  ceremonies  of  our  religion,  without 
being  considered  as  sorcerers."  Their  success  among  the  natives,  how 
ever,  by  no  means  equalled  their  exertions.  Pere  Lallamant  says  :  "With 
respect  to  adult  persons,  in  good  health,  there  is  little  apparent  suc 
cess  ;  on  the  contrary,  there  have  been  nothing  but  storms  and  whirlwinds 
from  that  quarter." 

Sebastian  Ralle  established  himself,  some  time  about  the  year  1670,  at 
Norridgewock,  where  he  continued  more  than  forty  years.  He  was  ac 
cused,  and  perhaps  not  without  justice,  of  exciting  his  praying  Indians 
against  the  English,  whom  he  looked  upon  as  the  enemies  not  only  of  his 


NOTES.  367 

king,  but  also  of  the  Catholic  religion.  He  was  killed  by  the  English,  in 
1724,  at  the  foot  of  the  cross  which  his  own  hands  had  planted.  This 
Indian  church  was  broken  up,  and  its  members  either  killed  outright  or 
dispersed. 

In  a  letter  written  by  Ralle  to  his  nephew  he  gives  the  following  account 
of  his  church,  and  his  own  labors  :  "  All  my  converts  repair  to  the  church 
regularly  twice  every  day  ;  first,  very  early  in  the  morning,  to  attend  mass, 
and  again  in  the  evening,  to  assist  in  the  prayers  at  sunset.  As  it  is  ne 
cessary  to  fix  the  imagination  of  savages,  whose  attention  is  easily  dis 
tracted,  I  have  composed  prayers,  calculated  to  inspire  them  with  just 
sentiments  of  the  august  sacrifice  of  our  altars  :  they  chant,  or  at  least  re 
cite  them  aloud,  during  mass.  Besides  preaching  to  them  on  Sundays  and 
saints'  days,  I  seldom  let  a  working-day  pass,  without  making  a  concise 
exhortation,  for  the  purpose  of  inspiring  them  with  horror  at  those  vices  to 
which  they  are  most  addicted,  or  to  confirm  them  in  the  practice  of  some 
particular  virtue."  —  Vide  Lettres  Edifianies  et  Cur.,  Vol.  VI.  p.  127. 

NOTE  17,  page  34. 

The  character  of  Ralle  has  probably  never  been  correctly  delineated. 
By  his  brethren  of  the  Romish  Church,  he  has  been  nearly  apotheosized. 
On  the  other  hand,  our  Puritan  historians  have  represented  him  as  a 
demon  in  human  form.  He  was  undoubtedly  sincere  in  his  devotion  to 
the  interests  of  his  church,  and  not  over-scrupulous  as  to  the  means  of  ad 
vancing  those  interests.  "The  French,"  says  the  author  of  the  History 
of  Saco  and  Biddeford,  "after  the  peace  of  1713,  secretly  promised  to 
supply  the  Indians  with  arms  and  ammunition,  if  they  would  renew  hos 
tilities.  Their  principal  agent  was  the  celebrated  Ralle,  the  French 
Jesuit."  — p.  215. 

NOTE  1 8,  page  37. 

Hertel  de  Rouville  was  an  active  and  unsparing  enemy  of  the  English. 
He  was  the  leader  of  the  combined  French  and  Indian  force  which  de 
stroyed  Deerfield  and  massacred  its  inhabitants,  in  1703.  He  was  after 
wards  killed  in  the  attack  upon  Haverhill.  Tradition  says  that,  on  exam 
ining  his  dead  body,  his  head  and  face  were  found  to  be  perfectly  smooth, 
without  the  slightest  appearance  of  hair  or  beard. 

NOTE  19,  page  38. 
Cowesass  ? — tawhich  wessaseen  ?    Are  you  afraid  ? — why  fear  you  ? 

NOTE  20,  page  47. 

Winnepurkit,  otherwise  called  George,  Sachem  of  Saugus,  married  a 
daughter  of  Passaconaway,  the  great  Pennacook  chieftain,  in  1662.  The 
wedding  took  place  at  Pennacook  (now  Concord,  N.  H.)  and  the  cere- 


368  NOTES, 

monies  closed  with  a  great  feast.  According  to  the  usages  of  the  chiefs, 
Passaconaway  ordered  a  select  number  of  his  men  to  accompany  the  new 
ly-married  couple  to  the  dwelling  of  the  husband,  where  in  turn  there  was 
another  great  feast.  Some  time  after,  the  wife  of  Winnepurkit  expressing 
a  desire  to  visit  her  father's  house,  was  permitted  to  go,  accompanied  by  a 
brave  escort  of  her  husband's  chief  men.  But  when  she  wished  to  return, 
her  father  sent  a  messenger  to  Saugus,  informing  her  husband,  and  asking 
him  to  come  and  take  her  away.  He  returned  for  answer  that  he  had  es 
corted  his  wife  to  her  father's  house  in  a  style  that  became  a  chief,  and 
that  now  if  she  wished  to  return,  her  father  must  send  her  back  in  the 
same  way.  This  Passaconaway  refused  to  do,  and  it  is  said  that  here  ter 
minated  the  connection  of  his  daughter  with  the  Saugus  chief.  —  Vid* 
Morton's  New  Canaan. 

NOTE  21,  page  54. 

This  was  the  name  which  the  Indians  of  New  England  gave  to  two  or 
three  of  their  principal  chiefs,  to  whom  all  their  inferior  sagamores  ac 
knowledged  allegiance.  Passaconaway  seems  to  have  been  one  of  these 
chiefs.  His  residence  was  at  Pennacook.  (Mass.  Hist.  Coll.,  Vol.  III. 
pp.  21,  22.)  "He  was  regarded,"  says  Hubbard,  "as  a  great  sorcerer, 
and  his  fame  was  widely  spread.  It  was  said  of  him  that  he  could  cause  a 
green  leaf  to  grow  in  winter,  trees  to  dance,  water  to  burn,  &c.  He  was, 
undoubtedly,  one  of  those  shrewd  and  powerful  men  whose  achievements 
are  always  regarded  by  a  barbarous  people  as  the  result  of  supernatural 
aid.  The  Indians  gave  to  such  the  names  of  Powahs  or  Panisees." 

"  The  Panisees  are  men  of  great  courage  and  wisdom,  and  to  these  the 
Devill  appeareth  more  familiarly  than  to  others." —  Winslow's  Relation. 

NOTE  22,  page  59. 

"The  Indians,"  says  Roger  Williams,  "have  a  god  whom  they  call 
Wetuomanit,  who  presides  over  the  household." 

NOTE  23,  page  63. 

There  are  rocks  in  the  river  at  the  Falls  of  Amoskeag,  in  the  cavities  of 
which,  tradition  says,  the  Indians  formerly  stored  and  concealed  their 
corn. 

NOTE  24,  page  66. 

The  Spring  God.  —  See  Roger  Williams' s  Key,  &c. 

NOTE  25,  page  71. 

"  Mat  wonck  kunna-monee."  We  shall  see  thee  or  her  no  more.  — 
Vide  Roger  Williams' s  Key  to  the  Indian  Language, 

NOTE  26,  page  72. 
"  The  Great  South  West  God."  —  See  Roger  Williams' s  Observations, 

to. 


NOTES.  369 


NOTE  27,  page  76. 

The  Celebrated  Captain  Smith,  after  resigning  the  government  of  the 
Colony  in  Virginia,  in  his  capacity  of  "  Admiral  of  New  England,"  made 
a  careful  survey  of  the  coast  from  Penobscot  to  Cape  Cod,  in  the  summer 

of  1614, 

NOTE  28,  page  76. 

Lake  Winnipiseogee,  —  The  Smile  of  the  Great  Spirit,  —  the  source 
of  one  of  the  branches  of  the  Merrimack. 

NOTE  29,  page  77. 

Captain  Smith  gave  to  the  promontory,  now  called  Cape  Ann,  the  name 
of  Tragabizanda,  in  memory  of  his  young  and  beautiful  mistress  of  lhat 
name,  who,  while  he  was  a  captive  at  Constantinople,  like  Desdemona, 
"  loved  him  for  the  dangers  he  had  passed." 

NOTE  30,  page  78. 

Some  three  or  four  years  since,  a  fragment  of  a  statue,  rudely  chiselled 
iroin  dark  gray  stone,  was  found  in  the  town  of  Bradford,  on  the  Merri- 
inack.  Its  origin  must  be  left  entirely  to  conjecture.  The  fact  that  the 
ancient  Northmen  visited  New  England,  some  centuries  before  the  dis 
coveries  of  Columbus,  is  now  very  generally  admitted. 

NOTE  31,  page  107. 

De  Soto,  in  the  sixteenth  century,  penetrated  into  the  wilds  of  the  new 
world  in  search  of  gold  and  the  fountain  of  perpetual  youth. 

NOTE  32,  page  125. 

TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE,  the  black  chieftain  of  Hayti,  was  a  slave  on 
the  plantation  "  de  Libertas,"  belonging  to  M.  BAYOU.  When  the  rising 
of  the  negroes  took  place,  in  1791,  TOUSSAINT  refused  to  join  them  until 
he  had  aided  M.  BAYOU  and  his  family  to  escape  to  Baltimore.  The 
white  man  had  discovered  in  Toussaint  many  noble  qualities,  and  had  in 
structed  him  in  some  of  the  first  branches  of  education  ;  and  the  preserva 
tion  of  his  life  was  owing  to  the  negro's  gratitude  for  this  kindness. 

In  1797  Toussaint  POuverture  was  appointed,  by  the  French  govern 
ment,  General-in-Chief  of  the  armies  of  St.  Domingo,  and,  as  such,  signed 
the  Convention  with  General  Maitland  for  the  evacration  of  the  island  by 
the  British.  From  this  period,  until  1801,  the  island,  under  the  govern 
ment  of  Toussaint,  was  happy,  tranquil,  and  prosperous.  The  miserable 
attempt  of  Napoleon  to  re-establish  slavery  in  St.  Domingo,  although  it 
failed  of  its  intended  object,  proved  fatal  to  the  negro  chieftain.  Treach 
erously  seized  by  Leclerc,  he  was  hurried  on  board  a  vessel  by  night,  and 
conveyed  to  France,  where  he  was  confined  in  a  cold  subterranean  dun 
geon,  at  Besaa^on,  where,  in  April,  1803,  he  died.  The  treatment  of 


370  NOTES. 

Toussaint  finds  a  parallel  only  in  the  murder  of  the  Duke  d'Enghein.  Iv 
was  the  remark  of  Godwin,  in  his  lectures,  that  the  West  Indian  Islands, 
since  their  first  discovery  by  Columbus,  could  not  boast  of  a  single  name 
which  deserves  comparison  with  that  of  Toussaint  1'Ouverture. 

NOTE  33,  page  132. 

The  reader  may,  perhaps,  call  to  mind  the  beautiful  sonnet  of  William 
Wordsworth,  addressed  to  Toussaint  1'Ouverture,  during  his  confinement 
in  France. 

"  Toussaint  I  —  thou  most  unhappy  man  of  men  I 
Whether  the  whistling  rustic  tends  his  plough 
Within  thy  hearing,  or  thou  liest  now 
Buried  in  some  deep  dungeon's  earless  den  : 
O  miserable  chieftain  !  —  where  and  when 
Wilt  thou  find  patience  ?  —  Yet,  die  not,  do  thou 
Wear  rather  in  thy  bonds  a  cheerful  brow  ; 
Though  fallen  thyself,  never  to  rise  again, 
Live  and  take  comfort.     Thou  hast  left  behind 

Powers  that  will  work  for  thee  ;  air,  earth,  and  skies,  — 
There  's  not  a  breathing  of  the  common  wind 
That  will  forget  thee  :  thou  hast  great  allies. 
Thy  friends  are  exultations,  agonies, 
And  love,  and  man's  unconquerable  mind" 

NOTE  34,  page  133. 

The  French  ship  LE  RODEUR,  with  a  crew  of  twenty-two  men,  and  with 
one  hundred  and  sixty  negro  slaves,  sailed  from  Bonny,  in  Africa,  April, 
1819.  On  approaching  the  line,  a  terrible  malady  broke  out,  —  an  obsti 
nate  disease  of  the  eyes,  —  contagious,  and  altogether  beyond  the  re 
sources  of  medicine.  It  was  aggravated  by  the  scarcity  of  water  among 
the  slaves  (only  half  a  wineglass  per  day  being  allowed  to  an  indi 
vidual),  and  by  the  extreme  impurity  of  the  air  in  which  they  breathed. 
By  the  advice  of  the  physician,  they  were  brought  upon  deck  occasion 
ally  ;  but  some  of  the  poor  wretches,  locking  themselves  in  each  other's 
arms,  leaped  overboard,  in  the  hope,  which  so  universally  prevails  among 
them,  of  being  swiftly  transported  to  their  own  homes  in  Africa.  To 
check  this,  the  captain  ordered  several  who  were  stopped  in  the  attempt 
to  be  shot,  or  hanged,  before  their  companions.  The  disease  extended  to 
the  crew ;  and  one  after  another  were  smitten-  with  it,  until  only  one  re 
mained  unaffected.  Yet  even  this  dreadful  condition  did  not  preclude  cal 
culation  :  to  save  the  expense  of  supporting  slaves  rendered  unsalable,  and 
to  obtain  grounds  for  a  claim  against  the  underwriters,  thirty-six  of  the 
negroes,  having  become  blind,  were  thrown  into  the  sea  and  drowned  ! 

In  the  midst  of  their  dreadful  fears  lest  the  solitary  individual,  whose 


NOTES.  371 

sight  remained  unaffected,  should  also  be  seized  with  the  malady,  a  sail 
was  discovered.  It  was  the  Spanish  slaver,  Leon.  The  same  disease  had 
been  there  ;  and,  horrible  to  tell,  all  the  crew  had  become  blind  !  Unable 
to  assist  each  other,  the  vessels  parted.  The  Spanish  ship  has  never  since 
been  heard  of  The  Rodeur  reached  Guadaloupe  on  the  2ist  of  June ; 
the  only  man  who  had  escaped  the  disease,  and  had  thus  been  enabled  to 
steer  the  slaver  into  port,  caught  it  in  three  days  after  its  arrival.  —  Speech 
of  M.  Benjamin  Consta?it,  in  the  French  Chamber  of  Deputies,  June  17, 
1820. 

NOTE  35,  page  182. 

The  Northern  author  of  the  Congressional  rule  against  receiving  peti 
tions  of  the  people  on  the  subject  of  Slavery. 

NOTE  36,  page  212. 

Dr.  Thacher,  surgeon  in  ScammePs  regiment,  in  his  description  of  the 
siege  of  Yorktown,  says  :  "The  labor  on  the  Virginia  plantations  is  per 
formed  altogether  by  a  species  of  the  human  race  cruelly  wrested  from 
their  native  country,  and  doomed  to  perpetual  bondage,  while  their  mas 
ters  are  manfully  contending  for  freedom  and  the  natural  rights  of  man. 
Such  is  the  inconsistency  of  human  nature*"  Eighteen  hundred  slaves 
were  found  at  Yorktown,  after  its  surrender,  and  restored  to  their  masters. 
Well  was  it  said  by  Dr.  Barnes,  in  his  late  work  on  Slavery  :  "  No  slave 
was  any  nearer  his  freedom  after  the  surrender  of  Yorktown  than  when 
Patrick  Henry  first  taught  the  notes  of  liberty  to  echo  among  the  hills  and 
vales  of  Virginia." 

NOTE  37,  page  229. 

The  rights  and  liberties  affirmed  by  MAGNA  CHARTA  were  deemed  of 
such  importance,  in  the  thirteenth  century,  that  the  Bishops,  twice  a  year, 
with  tapers  burning,  and  in  their  pontifical  robes,  pronounced,  in  the  pres 
ence  of  the  king  and  the  representatives  of  the  estates  of  England,  the 
greater  excommunication  against  the  infringer  of  that  instrument.  The 
imposing  ceremony  took  place  in  the  great  Hall  of  Westminster.  A  copy 
of  the  curse,  as  pronounced  in  1253,  declares  that,  "'by  the  authority  of 
Almighty  God,  and  the  blessed  Apostles  and  Martyrs,  and  all  the  saints 
in  heaven,  all  those  who  violate  the  English  liberties,  and  secretly  or 
openly,  by  deed,  word,  or  counsel,  do  make  statutes,  or  observe  them 
being  made,  against  said  liberties,  are  accursed  and  sequestered  from  the 
company  of  heaven  and  the  sacraments  of  the  Holy  Church." 

WILLIAM  PENN,  in  his  admirable  political  pamphlet,  "  England's  Pres 
ent  Interest  considered,"  alluding  to  the  curse  of  the  Charter-breakers, 
says :  "  I  am  no  Roman  Catholic,  and  little  value  their  other  curses  ;  yet 
I  declare  I  would  not  for  the  world  incur  this  curse,  as  every  man  deserv 
edly  doth,  who  offers  violence  to  the  fundamental  freedom  thereby  re 
peated  and  confirmed." 


37' 


NOTES. 


NOTE  38,  page  275. 

"  The  manner  in  which  the  Waldenses  and  heretics  disseminated  their 
principles  among  the  Catholic  gentry,  was  by  carrying  with  them  a  box  of 
trinkets,  or  articles  of  dress.  Having  entered  the  houses  of  the  gentry 
and  disposed  of  some  of  their  goods,  they  cautiously  intimated  that  they 
had  commodities  far  more  valuable  than  these,  —  inestimable  jewels, 
which  they  would  show  if  they  could  be  protected  from  the  clergy.  They 
would  then  give  their  purchasers  a  Bible  or  Testament;  and  thereby 
many  were  deluded  into  heresy."  —  R.  Saccho. 

NOTE  39,  page  321. 

Chalkley  Hall,  near  Frankford,  Pa.,  the  residence  of  THOMAS  CHALK- 
LEY,  an  eminent  minister  of  the  Friends'  denomination.  He  was  one  of 
the  early  settlers  of  the  Colony,  and  his  Journal,  which  was  published  in 
1749,  presents  a  quaint  but  beautiful  picture  of  a  life  of  unostentatious  and 
simple  goodness.  He  was  the  master  of  a  merchant  vessel,  and,  in  his 
visits  to  the  West  Indies  and  Great  Britain,  omitted  no  opportunity  to 
labor  for  the  highest  interests  of  his  fellow-men.  During  a  temporary 
residence  in  Philadelphia,  in  the  summer  of  1838,  the  quiet  and  beautiful 
scenery  around  the  ancient  village  of  Frankford  frequently  attracted  me 
from  the  heat  and  bustle  of  the  city, 

NOTE  40,  page  331. 
August.  Sililoq.  cap.  xxxi.     "  Interrogavi  Terram,"  &c. 

NOTE  41,  page  338. 

For  the  idea  of  this  line,  I  am  indebted  to  Emerson,  in  his  inimitable 
Bonnet  to  the  Rhodora,  — 

"  If  eyes  were  made  for  seeing, 
Then  Beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being." 


HARRIET    TUBMAN 


The  History  and  Character  of  a  Remark 
able   Woman,   a  Negress 


Her 


Poetica 
2  vol 

Poetica 
With 

Riversi 
Poems. 
Househ 
Family 
Red-Li; 

$2.50 
Illustra 

8vo, 
Illiistra 

Portr 

The! 

tion  of 
Golden 
Works, 


Comprij 

New  j 
House  k^ 
Red-Li 

Thes 
edition 
two  un 


Prose 


Hyperi 
Cheap 
Outre-1 
(.heap 

Kavan 

The  G 


[Anne  Fitzhugh  Miller,  in  American  Magazine! 

No  one  knows  exactly  when  Harriet  Ross 
was  born,  but  it  was  on  the  eastern  shore 
of  Maryland  and  not  much  less  than  a 
hundred  years  ago.  She  knows  that  her 
mother's  mother  was  brought  in  a  slave 
ship  from  Africa,  that  her  mother  was  the 
daughter  of  a  white  man,  an  American, 
and  her  father  a  full-blooded  Negro. 

Harriet  was  not  large,  but  she.  was  very 
strong.  The  most  strenuous  slave  labor 
was  demanded  of  her;  summer  and  winter 
she  drove  oxcarts;  she  ploughed;  with  her 
father  she  cut  timber  and  drew  heavy  logs 
like  a  patient  mule.  About  the  year  1844 
she  was  married  to  a  freedman  named 
Tubman..  He  proved  unworthy  and  de 
serted  her.  She  determined  to  try  to  es 
cape  from  slavery,  and  induced  her  two 
brothers  to  go  with  her.  The  three  started 
together,  'but  the  brothers  soon  became 
frightened  and  turned  back.  Harriet  went 
on  alone.  All  through  the  night  she 
walked  and  ran  alone.  When  she  reached 
a  place  of  safety  it  was  morning.  She 
says:  "I  looked  at  my  hands  to  see  if  T 
was  the  same  person  now  I  was  free- 
there  was  such  a  glory  over  everything, 
the  sun  came  like  gold  through  the  trees 
and  over  the  fields,  and  I  felt  like  I  was  in 
heaven!"  Not  one  to  enjoy  heaven  alone 
was  that  generous  heart.  Nineteen  times 
did  she  return  to  the  land  of  slavery,  and 
each  time  brought  away  to  Canada  groups 
of  men,  women  and  children,  her  parents 
and  brothers  among  them,  about  three  hun 
dred  in  all.  A  prize  of  $40,000  was  offered 
for  her  capture,  but  Harriet  was  never 
caught.  She  delights  to  recall  the  fact 
that  on  all  those  long  and  perilous  journeys 
on  the  "Underground  Railroad"  she  never 
lost  a  passenger!  Her  belief  that  she  was 
and  is  sustained  and  guided  by  "de  spent' 
of  de  Lord"  is  absolute.  Governor  An 
drew  of  Massachusetts  appointed  her  scout 
and  nurse  during  the  war.  She  is  now  re 
ceiving  a  pension. 

One  of  the  most  important  episodes  in 
which  Harriet  took  a  leading  part  and 
proved  the  saving  factor  was  Colonel  Mont- 
gomerie's  exploit  on  the  Combahee  River. 
General  Hunter  secured  Harriet's  assist- 
a&ce  for  the  great  undertaking.  The  plan 
was  to  send  several  gunboats  and  a  few 
men  up  the  river,  in  an  attempt  to  collect 
th3  slaves  living  near  the  shores  and  carry 
them  down  to  Beaufort,  within  the  Union 
lines.  It  is  worth  a  day's  journey  to  h*ear 


w. 

ites. 
'tion. 

2.00. 
4to, 
ions, 
nd." 


:cep- 
The 
latic 


and 

r  .00. 


ding 
s  in 


General  ttunter  secured  Marriet  s  assist- 
afcce  for  the  great  undertaking.  The  plan 
was  to  send  several  gunboats  and  a  few 
men  up  the  river,  in  an  attempt  to  collect 
the  slaves  living  near  the  shores  and  carry 
them  down  to  Beaufort,  within  the  Union 
lines.  It  is  worth  a  day's  journey  to  Wear 
Harriet  herself  describe  the  vivid  scene- 
throngs  of  hesitating  refugees,  a  motley 
-ciowd,  men,  women,  children,  babies— 
("Peers  like  I  nebber  see  so  many  twins  in 
my  life") — and  pigs  and  chickens,  and  such 
domestic  necessities  as  could  be  "toted  ' 
along.  The  slave-drivers  had  used  their 
whips  in  vain  to  get  the  poor  refugees  back 
tD  their  quarters,  and  yet  the  blacks  were 
almost  as  much  in  dread  of  the  stranger 
soldiers.  How  deal  with  this  turbulent 
mass  of  humanity?  The  colonel  realized 
the  danger  of  delay,  and  calling  Harriet  to 
the  upper  deck  in  a  voice  of  command  said: 
"Moses,  you'll  have  to  give  'em  a  song!" 
Then  the  power  of  the  woman  poured  forth 
—Harriet  lifted  up  a  voice  full  of  emotional 
fervor  in  verse  after  verse  of  prophetic 
pi  omise.  She  improvised  both  words  and 
melody: 

Of  all  the  whole  creation  in  the  East  or  in  the 

West 
The  glorious   Yankee   nation  is   the  greatest  and 

the  best! 

Come  along!     Come  along!     Don't  be  alarm, 
Uncle  Sam's  rich  enough  to  give  us  all  a  farm! 

Come  along!     Come  along!     Don't  be  a  fool, 
Uncle  Sam's  rich  enough  to'  send  us  all  to  school!  | 
etc.,  etc. 

As  she  chanted  to  refrain  "Come  alonff! 
Come  along!"  she  raised  her  long  arms 
with  an  imperious  gesture  impossible  to 
resist.  The  crowd  responded  with  shouts 
of  "Glory!  Glory!"  The  victory  was  won— 
about  eight  hundred  souls  eagerly  scrambled 
on  board  the  gunboats  and  were  trans 
ported  to  freedom. 

Among  the  many  men  of  note  who  trusted 
and  encouraged  the  intrepid  little  woman 
were  Wendell  Phillips,  William  Lloyd  Gar 
rison,  Thomas  Garrett, 'William  H.  Seward, 
Emerson,  Alcott,  Dr.  Howe  and  Gerrit 
Smith.  Frederick  Douglass  wrote  of  her, 
"Excepting  John  Brown,  I  know  no  one 
who  has  encountered  more  perils  and  hard 
ships  to  serve  our  enslaved  people."  John 
Brown  said,  "Mr.  Phillips,  I  bring  you  one 
of  the  best  and  bravest  persons  on  this 
continent,  'General  Tubman,'  as  we  call 
her."  He  also  said.  "She  i<^  the  most  r»f  a 
man,  naturally,  that  I  ever  met  with." 
This  war-time  general  now  speaks  \v'th 
reverence— "John  Brown,  my  dearest 
friend" — and  she  whom  he  called  "the  most 
of  a  man"  is  also  more  of  a  mother  l.han 
most  women.  She  founded  and  maintains 
a  home  for  colored  men  and  women.  She 
"dwells  in  the  midst  of  them,  singing." 


•3uoz  reino  am  jo 
m   ssnosip  o>   uorpsudoaddy  uo  ea* 
,-uiioD  esnoH  ^  «o,eq  «add*  o, L  si  'TOt 
-  *  aouBJ-eaddu  rensn  siq  30  »OU-BA 


r^r-^nwiraoo   ----- ?.em    -> 

WORKS    OF 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

COMPLETE   EDITIONS    OF    POEMS. 

Poetical  Works.     Cambridge  Edition.     Portrait  and  3  Plates. 

2  vols.  I2mo,  $7.00. 
Poetical  Works  (including  "Christus").     Cambridge  Edition. 

With  Portrait.     4  vols.  crown  8vo,  $9.00. 
Riverside  Edition:    4  vols.   I2ino,  $10.00. 
Poems.     Diamond  Edition.      i8mo,  $1.00. 
Household  Edition.     Portrait,  Index,  and  Notes.     I2mo,  $2.00. 
Family  Edition.     Illustrated.     8vo,  $2.50 
Red-Line  Edition.     Portrait,  and  12  Illustrations.     Small  4to, 

$2.50. 
Illustrated  Library   Edition.     Portrait    and   32  Illustrations. 

8vo,  $4  oo. 
Illustrated  Octavo  Edition.     Including  "  The  Golden  Legend." 

Portrait  and  300  Illustrations.     8vo,  $8.00. 

These  single-volume  editions  of  the  Poems  (with  the  excep 
tion  of  the  Illustrated  Octavo  Edition,  which  contains  "  The 
Golden  Legend")  do  not  include  LONGFELLOW'S  Dramatic 
Works,  which  are  grouped  in  "Christus." 

CHRISTUS. 

Comprising  the  Divine   Tragedy,  The  Golden  Legend,  and 
New  England  Tragedies.      Diamond  Edition.     i8mo,  $1.00. 

Household  Edition.      ]2mo,  $2.00. 

Red-Line  Edition.     16  Illustrations      Small  4to,  $2.50. 

These    editions    of    "Christus,"    with    the   corresponding 

editions  of  the  Poems,  form  the  complete  Poetical  Works  in 

two  uniform  volumes. 

PROSE    WORKS. 

Prose  Works.     Cambridge  Edition.     2  vols.  I2mo,  $4.50. 

SEPARATE    WORKS. 

Hyperion      A  Romance.     $1.50. 

Cheap  Edition.     40  cents  ;  paper  15  cents. 

Outre-Mer.     $1.50. 

(.  heap  Edition.     40  cents  ;  paper  15  cents. 

Kavanagh.     A  Romance.     #1.50. 

The  Golden  Legend.    #i.oa 


Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn.    $1.00. 
The  Song  of  Hiawatha.     $1.00. 

Evangeline.     $1.00. 

Illustrated  Edition.     $2.00. 

The  Same.     Illustrated  by  DARLEY.     Folio,  $10.00. 

Aftermath.     $1.50. 

The  Building  of  the   Ship.     Red-Line  Edition.     Illustrated 

$2.00. 

The  Hanging  of  the  Crane.     With  42  Illustrations.     £3  oo 
The  Same.     Illustrated.    $1.50. 
The  Masque  of  Pandora.     $1.50. 
Keramos  and  other  Poems.     $1.25. 
Ultima  Thule.     Portrait.     $1.00. 

In  the  Harbor.     Ultima  Thule,  Part  II.     Portrait.    $l.oo. 
The  Skeleton  in  Armor.     Illustrated.     $3.00. 
Excelsior.     Illustrated.     $1.50. 
Michael  Angelo.     Illustrated.     $7.50. 

Twenty  Poems  from  II .  W.  Longfellow.    Illustrated  by  E.  W. 
LONGFELLOW.     With  Portrait.     $3.00 

TRANSLATIONS,    COMPILATIONS,  ETC. 

Translation  of  Dante's  Divina  Commeclia.     $3.00. 

Cambridge  Edition.     3  vols.  $6.00. 

The  Same.     3  vols.  each  $4.50  ;  the  set,  $13.50. 

The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  Europe.     Edited  by  LONGFELLOW. 

$5.00. 
Poems   of  Places.     Edited  by  LONGFELLOW.     Each  volume 

$1.00  ;  the  set,  31  vols.  $25.00. 
Poems   of  America.       Edited   by  LONGFELLOW.       Holiday 

Edition.     Illustrated.     The  set,  $5.00. 

Longfellow  Birthday  Book.     Portrait  and  Illustrations.  $1.00. 
Longfellow  Calendar.     $i.oc. 
Longfellow  Leaflets.      Paper,  48  cents;  Pamphlet  or  Leaflets, 

separately,  24  cents  each  ;  Pamphlet  in  cloth,  48  cents. 
Seven  Voices  of  Sympathy.     i6mo,  $i  25. 
Riverside  Literature  Series      i.  Evangeline.     2.  Miles  Stancl- 

i.sh.     3.  The  Same,  Dramatized.      4.  Children's  Hour,  etc- 

13,  14.  Hiawatha.     Each  number  15  cents. 

*#*  For  sale  by  all  Booksellers.     Sent  by  mail,  post-fa  id,  on 
receipt  of  price  by  ///e'  Publisher $> 

KOUGHTON,   MIFFLIN   &   CO.,   BOSTON,   MASS. 


Works  of  John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


COMPLETE  POETICAL  WORKS. 

HOUSEHOLD  EDITION.    12mo,  $2.00;  half  calf,  §4.00;  morocco,  or  tree  calf. 

$5.00. 
ILLUSTRATED  LIBRARY  EDITION.    With  portrait  and  32  full-page  illustration!?, 

8vo,  full  gilt,  $4.00  ;  half  calf,  $7.00;  morocco,  or  tree  calf,  $9.00. 
DIAMOND  EDITION.    ISino,  $1.00 ;  half  calf,  $2.25 ;  morocco,  $3.00  ;  tree  calf, 

$3.50. 
ItED-LiNE  EDITION.     With  portrait  and  12  full-page  illustrations.     Small  4to. 

full  gilt,  $2.50  ;  half  calf,  $4.00  ;  morocco,  or  tree  calf,  $6.00. 
CAMBRIDGE  EDITION.     With  fine  portrait      3  vols.  crown  8vo,  Avith  gilt  top, 

$6.75  ;  half  calf,  $12.00;  morocco,  $18.00. 
FAMILY  EDITION.    Illustrated.    8vo,  full  gilt,  $2.50, 


PROSE  WORKS. 

Prose  Works.  Cambridge  Edition.  Uniform  with  the  Cambridge  Edition 
of  the  Poems.  2  vols.  crown  8vo,  gilt  top,  $4.50  ;  half  calf,  $8.00  ;  morocco, 
$12.00. 

CONTENTS.  —  Vol.  I. :  LEAVES  FROM  MARGARET  SMITH'S  JOURNAL.  A  very 
successful  attempt  to  reproduce  the  daily  life  of  New  Englanders  during  the 
early  history  of  the  country.  OLD  PORTRAITS  AND  MODERN  SKETCHES.  A  charm 
ing  series  of  essays  on  John  Bunyan,  Thomas  Elhvood,  James  Nay  lor,  Andrew 
Marvell,  John  Roberts,  Samuel  Hopkins,  Richard  Baxter,  William  Leggett, 
Nathaniel  Peabody  Rogers,  and  Robert  Dinsmore.  Vol.  If. :  LITERARY  RECRE 
ATIONS  AND  MISCELLANIES.  Between  thirty  and  forty  essays  and  sketches  on  a 
wide  variety  of  subjects.  Some  of  these  are  valuable  historical  papers,  and  all 
are  of  an  interesting,  and  many  of  a  curious  character. 


SEPARATE    WORKS. 

Snow-Bound.    A  Winter  Idyl.    With  portrait  and  three  illustrations.    IGmo, 

$1.00 ;  morocco,  $3.50. 

HOLIDAY  EDITION.    With  40  illustrations  by  HARRY  FENN.    Full  gilt.  8vo 

$3.00  ;  morocco,  $7.50. 
Snow-Bound,  Tent  on  the  Beach,  and  Favorite  Poems  form  ''Modern 

Classics  "  (No.  4),  32mo,  75  cents. 

SCHOOL  EDITION.    50  cents      Introductory  price,  35  cents  (by  mail  40  cents). 
Maud  Muller.     With  illustrations.     8vo,  cloth,  full  gilt,  $2.50  ;   morocco, 

$6  00. 

The  Vision  of  Echard,  and  other  Poems.     16mo,  $1.25. 

The  King's  Missive,  and  other  Poems.    Steel  portrait,    16mo,  gilt  top,  ?  1 .00. 

Ballads  of  New  England.    60  illustrations.    Full  gilt,  8vo.  $3  00  ;  morocco 

£7.50. 

Mabel  Martin.     A  Harvest  Idyl.    58  illustrations  by  MARY  HALLOCK  FOOTE 

Full  gilt,,  Svo,  $3.00  ;  niorocco,  or  tree  calf,  $7.50. 
T!^:  SAME.     Popular  Edition.     Several  illustrations.     16mo,  $1.50. 
The  River  Path.     Fim-ly  illustrated      Cloth,  full  gilt,  square  16mo.  $1.50  ; 

morocco,  or  tree  calf,  $4.50. 

The  Bay  of  Seven  Islands,  and  other  Poems.     With  portrait.     IGmo.  gilt 
top,  $1.00. 


EDITED   BY   Mi,.   WHITTIER. 

John  Woolman's  Journal.    With  an  Introduction  by  J.  G.  \VHITTIEE.    I6mo, 

$1.50. 
Songs  of  Three  Centuries.     Selected,  with  Introductory  Essay,  by  J.  G. 

WHITTIER.     Household  Edition.    12mo,  $2.00;  half  calf,  §4.00;  morocco, 

or  tree  calf,  $5.00. 
THE  SAME.    Illustrated  Library  Edition.    32 full-pnge  illustrations.    8vo,  cloth, 

full  gilt,  $4.00  ;  half  calf,  $7.00  ;  morocco,  or  tree  calf,  &9.00. 
Child-Life.     A  Collection  of  Poems  for  and  about  Children.     Selected,  wirh 

an  Introductory  Essay,  by  J.  G.  WHITTIER.    Finely  illustrated.    16mo,  chit h . 

full  gilt,  $2.25";  half  calf,  §4.00. 
Child-Life  in  Prose.     A  Volume  of  Stories,  Fancies,  and  Memories  of  Chii  >- 

Life.     Selected,  with  an  Introductory  Essay,  by  .J.  G.  WHITTIER.    Finch  i  - 

lustrated.     16ino,  cloth,  full  gilt,  $2.25  ;  half  calf,  $4.00. 

Probably  no  better  collection  of  poetry  adapted  to  the  reading  of  children 
was  ever  published  than  that  entitled  "  Child-Life  "edited  by  the  poet  Whittii-r 
It  is  in  thousands  of  homes  and  is  likely  to  maintain  its  distinction  for  a  lonjr 
time  to  come.  Every  one  who  knows  of  that  superior  work  will  be  gratifh-.l 
to  learn  that  the  same  pure  and  noble  lover  of  children  has  compiled  a  com 
panion  volume,  entitled  ''Child  Life  in  Prose  "  It  is  a  beautiful  gift-book, 
but  better  than  this  :  it  is  a  book  for  all  days  and  for  all  ages,  an  enduring 
satisfaction.  —  Boston  Advertiser. 


WHITTIER    CALENDAR. 

Wit!-,  .-elections  from  Whittier's  Works  for  every  day  in  the  year.     Mounted  ou 
a  r;  rd  decorated  in  colors.     Size  12  x  8£  inches.     $1.00. 


WHITTIER    LEAFLETS. 

For  Homes,  Libraries,  ami  Schools.  Edited  by  .'OSKPFIINK  E.  IToDGDON.  12mo, 
illustrated.  Same  style  as  Longfellow  and  Holmes  Leaflets.  48  cents. 
Pamphlet  or  Leaflets,  separate,  24  cents. 


WHITTIER    BIRTHDAY   BOOK. 

Edited  by  ELIZABETH  S.  OWES.     With  portrait  and  12  illustrations.     Square 
18mo,  cloth,  tastefully  stamped,  $1.00  ;  calf,  morocco,  or  seal,  limp,  $3.50. 


WHITTIER:   TEXT  AND  VERSE. 

Parallel  Verses  from  the  Bible  and  from  WHITTIER'S  Works.     Compiled  by 
GERTRUDE  W.  CARTLAND.    32mo.  75  cents. 

%*  For  snle  by  nil  I  "wok  sellers.  Sent  by  mail,  post-paid,  on  re 
ceipt  of  price  by  the.  Publishers, 

HOUGIITON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY, 

4  Parlc  Street,  Boston,  Mass. 

(5^*»  A  Portrait  Cnfnhfjnc  of  Houston,  Mifflin  $-  Co.'s  Publica 
tion,  with  Portraits  of  />i<>r<-  <l«tu  tveiitt/  <>/'  their  famous  authors,  sent 
free  to  any  address  on  application. 


' 


V  -  c^  ;X  t* 


*"  ******* 

•=!?        -  -  . 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


AN    UNCOLLECTED    POEM    OF 
WHITTIER'S 

[There  are  hundreds  of  Whittier's  early 
poems  which  were  never  placed  by  him  in 
any  collection  of  his  works.  They  are  to 
be  found  in  the  papers  he  edited  and  to 
which  he  contributed  in  th6  days  before 
he  consecrated  all  hie  powers  to  humani 
tarian  work.  .  They  grave  him  a  measuro 
of  literary  reputation  which  must  have 
gratified  him  at  the  time;  but  when  he 
was  baptized  into  the  new  spirit  which  in 
formed  all  his  later  work  ne  took  pains 
to  prevent  the  collection  of  the  verses 
written  in  the  vein  of  an  outgrown  ambi 
tion.  His  wish  in  this  matter  should  be 
respected.  And  yet,  while  studying  his  early 
work,  I  find  some  poems  which  I  fancy 
he  would  have  preserved  if  they  had  not 
been  overlooked  when  making-  his  selec 
tions.  Among-  these  is  this  paraphrase  from 
the  German,  which  I  find  in  the  Liberator 
of  Aug.  10,  1888.— S.  T.  Packard.] 

LINES  FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  LAMI- 

TER. 

Thought  a'fter  thought  ye  thronging  rise. 

Like  spring  doves  from  the  startled  wood, 
Bearing  like  them  your  Sacrifice 

Of  music  unto  God! 
And  shall  those  thoughts  of  joy  a.nd  love 

Come  ba-ck  a^ain  no  more  to  me— 
Returning    like   the    patriarch's    dove, 

Wing-weary  from  the  eternal  sea— 
To   bear  within   my   longing  arms 

The  promise-bough,  of  kindlier  skies, 
Plucked   from   the   green   immortal    palms 

Which  shad©  the  bowers  cxf  Paradise? 

Child  of  the  sea,  tire  mountain  stream 
Prom  its  dark  cavern  hurries  on, 

Ceaseless  by  night  and   morning's   beam, 
By  evening's  star  and  noontide's  sun — 

Until  a/t  last  it  sinks  to  rest 
Overwearied  in  the  waiting  sea. 

And  moans   upon  its  mother's   breast- 
So  tuirns  my  soul  to  Thee. 

[John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 
The   Independent. 


—  The  town  of  Shunrway,  111.,  has  no  need 
of  an  extensive  excise  bureau.  It  has  one 
saloon,  which  pays  a  license  of  $700  for  the 
exclusive  privilege  of  selling  drinks.  This 
money  is  used  in  building  brick  sidewalks. 
The  town  has  no  regular  policemen,  but 
each  alderman,  the  mayor  and  the  saloon 
keeper  have  police  powers.  The  only 
salaried  official  is  the  city  clerk,  who  gets 
$18  a  year. 


